


Blame

by shortlived



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: Arora-chichou | Alola, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-05-19 01:57:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19347220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortlived/pseuds/shortlived
Summary: Alola has it all: bars, beaches, babes, and z-moves. And now? The one and only Green Oak to make it better.Life couldn’t be more perfect—if only people didn’t try to add strings where they shouldn’t be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Potaterto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potaterto/gifts).



> it's a birthday fic.
> 
> hap..........

When Green receives the invitation to Alola, it’s opportunity and luck rolled into one.

The job position for an esteemed Champion such as himself arrives not long after a package from a long-forgotten family member, revealing itself to be more than just a collection of pretty stones to gather dust in his closet. Gramp’s chatter becomes more excited with his own recently delivered treasures, whether in person or by pokégear.

“The data on these variants are really quite remarkable.” There’s always the sound of shuffling paper or clicking keyboards, sometimes in unison. “The influence of a pikachu’s diet to change into a completely different variant of raichu has me most fascinated. Did I tell you? Even with pikachu from parts of the world! And, about the raticate and persian...”

As interested as Green was in the _deviation of pokémon biology via environment_ , he gets his gramps to send over the data than relay it in pieces during his ramblings. The info trickles over to him until the point that Green is on a plane to the far-off islands—and where then, he would be gifted with the task of being gramp’s new source of data.

Which hey, data gathering for the old man? Easy stuff. There was just everything _else_ about Alola to get to, first.

The sun was a welcoming presence the moment the plane landed. It massaged Green’s skin between the open gaps from terminals to the taxi cab waiting to take him to his hotel, reservations made and paid for with his employer’s wallet. Not top suite like previous league business granted him, but the bed in his room was a double, and came with a balcony offering a view of the sea that images promoting Alola delighted in sharing.

With the waves rolling in on themselves, the late evening sun dying the sky and waters in oranges and reds, Green swallowed up the ocean air from the railing and _relished_ in how well life knew how to treat him.

But life wasn’t just about self-satisfaction, and Green was antsy for more. While his bones were predictably stiff after an eight hour plane ride, sleep was all he had to do for the plane ride, so he checks the hotel pamphlet and decides on the bar over the tempting pool. He finds it easily behind a pair of double-doors sat by the reception desk in the lobby, along with a girl with wavy brown hair that matches her eyes to sit next to.

She’s all the way from Kalos, two days into her vacation, and happy to have him dust off _le langage de l'amour_ on her in their conversation. Her lips are thin and the colour of cheris, her chest small but not flat, and her smile becomes all the more charming whenever he slips over a couple of words, sometimes on purpose.

They lean in closer until her hand rests on his thigh, and her mouth tastes like her drinks of pecha bellinis on his tongue once they’re back in her room. He fucks her slow from behind and she loves to moan, tell him how good his dick feels; it’s a little ridiculous, but she comes easily — too easy for him to feel smug about — and there’s less distractions when she finishes him off in her mouth, which Green can be happy with.

All that would be a good start to his trip if he didn’t zonk out right after and wake the next morning past ten, his throat dry and bones aching, and the effort spent dragging his ass back to his room to sleep further interrupted by some bodybuilder in a lab coat busting in.

 

“Alola, cousin!”

 

_“—Mmgghwhat.”_

 

\--

 

That turns out to be the professor that arranged the Battle Tree invitations.

 

\--

 

And it turns out he does that a lot.

 

* * *

 

 

“So, how are you liking our islands?”

 

“ _Whmm_ what.”

 

The man, Kukui, with abs fit for a sculpture in any Kalosian museum, and holy hell, did he always keep them out like that? — was insistent on showing him the island right there and then. But Green had the rather persuasive argument of “I just got off an eight hour plane ride, buddy” to make.

Kukui looks momentarily conflicted, but eventually concedes. “Yeah, yeah, sorry ‘bout that! I got ahead of myself looking forward to showing you around, I didn’t think you’d still be beat! But I guess we can do it another time. Or your friend from Kanto can help you out, yeah?”

Every word out of the guy was meaningless to Green at the time, who gave empty replies to get the weirdo and his cheery babbling out of the room quicker. But a day later, standing at Melemele’s docks with a toasted sandwich in hand and the paper wrapping crinkling with every slight movement he made, Green remembered it _then_ , just who and what had been suggested.

The idea of _that guy_ showing him the ropes, or whatever.

Green scoffs as the overhead speaker goes off in Alolan, the timetable screens blinking their updates, and he throws his trash into a bin as he makes his way to his gate number.

And he definitely doesn’t think about _him_ , or how anyone managed to drag him into a role of responsibility after this long.  


But alright, maybe he was looking forward to seeing him. A little.

 

If he hasn’t already decided to go live in the jungles, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Making the trek from one side of a tropical island to another, heat clings to Green like a third skin, the second made from the lotion Machamp helped apply in the areas he couldn’t reach. It doesn’t make existing under a giant fiery ball any less exhausting, passing grazed plains, herds of tauros and miltank lazily minding their own business, and where gumshoos and yungoos scuttle into what hiding places they can find.

But it had to help, at least in the “not turning into a walking cheri berry” department. The heat is the reason Green calls Arcanine out with him, maybe for one of them to enjoy the ridiculous weather. But maybe she enjoys it too much, stopping too often to look back where he trails behind, her gaze feigning an innocence Green knows doesn’t exist.

He frowns hard, wiping clammy hands on the sides of his shirt for the fiftieth time.

 _“You’re_ the one moving too fast. I’m going normal speed here, alright?”

Dumb stupid cheeky pokémon.

When they finally reach the shade of the Battle Tree’s canopy, they hear more than just the shrill calls of toucannon and rustling grass, but the noise of gathered activity, getting nearer. The dense thicket parts to reveal more of the great trunk, a great wall of wood leading down into a narrow hallway of rock that opens into an arena of dirt and roots, thick and decorated, torches burning to give some light under the heavy shade.

It’s a world within itself, separated even from the rest of the island. There’s people as Green takes in the heavy smell of foliage and tree sap, one of whom greets him as stride on over to him and Arcanine.

 _"Alo_ _la, Green, we’ve been waiting to see you!”_

If there’s anything to brighten a guy’s overboiled mood, it’s to be recognised when miles away from home. 

They’re a staff member it turns out, and Green’s told what he already knows for the most part: How the Battle Tree functions, what he and his co-boss will be able to decide as heads, and that they can choose which days to have off, but making it consistent will help boost the whole function they’re always working hard to keep popular.

“We want to make the Battle Tree a bigger success,” explains the woman filling him in, dark skinned and with hair cut short but that dips longer at the sides. Looks: 6/10. “That’s why we invited you both from so far away.”

Green scoffs and waves a careless hand, cramming down any concerns about if the heat showed on his face, if his deodorant was doing its job… “Don’t sweat it! I’ve dealt with shows like these before, and trust me: They’ll want to keep coming back to try and face me.”

Be it admiration, waiting for the day they _hoped_ they could wipe the floor with him, or both.

The woman had been leading him up the tree since they’d begun to talk, passing and watching a few of the ongoing battles, providing him a show of the layout. The noise of battles are distinct, scattered, _constant,_ but none of the platforms—not even one in use by a rolling miltank—quiver under the activities taking place.

No good for _earthquake_ attacks, Green thinks, but he’ll have to test that theory for himself. And the thought is exhilarating, digging into the smile already on his face. As an aside Green asks coolly, “So—he around?”

“That’s where I’m leading you to now,” the staff woman shares with a small lilt to her voice, and Green likes the sound of it. 7/10.

“Unless you mean Professor Kukui,” she goes on, and shares that he’ll be around later in the day. Green laughs and tells her no, but asks if he always goes around sporting a lab coat wherever he goes.

Don’t professors wear their professions wherever they go where you’re from, Green?

Green decides there he _really_ likes this lady, and finds out her name is Alanna.

When he, Alanna, and Arcanine reach the final platform, they do so with a drumming, bashing, all the other sounds Green attributes to an ongoing battle. It’s Venusaur’s hind legs they see first as the slope of the bridge rises to the end, her flower high and flush in mega evolution, and wafting already up Green’s nose. Her vines are snapped tight on their opponent, who Green spots barely around the mass of her bulky form: Blastoise, also in mega evolution.

And beyond him stands Red, a form of red and white and cloaked in shade, the peek of a hat on his head. Green’s hands come to rest on his hips, his cocked smile rolling out automatically; and he sees the cock of something else in his line of view, but doesn’t register what it is in the time he hears Alanna speak _“—should step aside—”_ and a rushing that drowns out her, Venusaur, and also—

 

him.

Green drags a hand over the waterlogged state of his hair now weighing a tonne, hearing the sloshing of his efforts better than his exclaims of “What th _e hell!”_ _,_ because _what the hell, how the hell,_ and _what the hell_ again. But when he focuses on more than the immediate issue, when he can _see_ more than sloppy hair pulling down his head, Green spots Red better this time. He’s stepped out from behind his blastoise, whose cannons have noticeably retracted, his form back to normal.

He watches Green in silence, his gaze impassive. Thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders sloping. 

Green stares daggers right back at that cool guy act.  


And finally, Red lets a corner of his mouth crack upward.

 

_“Hey.”_

_“Yeah, good to see you too. Jackass.”_

 

* * *

 

With a friendly smile and the tip of her head, Alanna leaves them to _catch up_. Red chucks Green a towel from his bag that he catches with a grunt — for '''''''thanks’'''’ —, and dries his hair while Red attends to his pokémon, or whatever.

Blastoise and Venusaur have both de-evolved (how the hell did Red manage to pull that off?), and Arcanine joins them with a swing to her tail. Red greets her with a shadow of fondness, scratching at the back of an ear while Venusaur brings out vines from beneath her plant, her groan deep and familiar. Welcoming.

Green chews the inside of his cheek, quelling any mistake of _fondness_ from reaching his face. Draping the towel over his arm, he starts popping undone the buttons of his shirt to stop it from clinging to his skin.

“So,” he starts, to get on that _catching up_ thing, “what hole and cave did they drag you out from? Were you living with some wild pokémon in their nest? Or, hey, maybe before you're the boss of anything, you can try teaching your blastoise to _aim_ properly.”

“He got you,” Red says without missing a beat. Green opens his mouth for the retort that doesn’t come, closes it, and goes back to chewing his cheek.

 _Bah_ —he practically gave Red that one. It was the only way he was gonna get them anyway.

“He got lucky,” Green grumbles, a little too late. He drops his shirt and wipes at his soaked skin, a few idle glances over at Red and the others becoming more focused, more directed particularly on the other guy. Red faces him, but turns his head while Green towels down—which, heh, _dork._

But Green wasn’t shy. No one would blame Red for doing so, but Green wasn’t checking Red out; rather, he was noticing something. Something… _off._ About Red. The way he looked.

There were times — in the handful of them they met — Green expected to see the same dorky hat-wearing eleven year old he left home with. But seeing him older, tallet, always dispelled that. Red’s face was the same, impossible for Green to misplace _,_ and his hat preference hadn't changed over the years.

No, it was...his clothes. A _‘96_ tee and jeans, which was far from out of Red’s realm of underwhelming fashion choices. But it was the way they fitted: the short-sleeves of his shirt hugging the upper arms, the fabric snug around his figure, and where his arms were folded across his chest, there was some — a _little,_ definition visible, from his elbow to the wrist. The band of his jeans sat comfortably around his hips, and the material actually clung all the way _down_ to his ankles.

Like holy hell, the guy actually got _well-fitted_ legwear for once?

 _Huh_. Green pats slower at his body with the towel now, the air on his skin doing most of the work in de-moisturising him. When he looks back up, Red is staring at him, a pair of thick narrowed brows accompanying his frown.

Green squints right back at him, then — with beads of water flicking off his hair — nods at Red’s whole being.

“Did your clothes shrink in the dryer, or did you actually get something in your size?”

Instead of giving a proper answer, Red tugs his hat down, and looks away. Green shrugs. 

Whatever. Weirdo.

 

* * *

 

Dried and with his shirt set to do the same thing, Green sits them to sort through some actual business, and gets Red to share his preferences for running the Battle Tree:

 

 

 **What days he wants off:** shrug

 **If he wants to do singles or doubles:** shrug

 **Is there any changes he wants to make?:** shrug

 **Does he know what he’s doing?:** shrug

 **Were you always this insufferable:** shrug

 

“Why are you here again.”

 

Guess the answer to that one.

 

But Red’s indifference gave Green more control over the decisions as he pleased, to ask the staff present which days were usually busy. With some actual feedback, he decides on the _doubles_ route for himself; it would be a fun challenge, one he was rusty on, sure, but not a beginner at. His team were as in sync with each other as they were him, and the canyons on Poni would make for good training, or so he was told. Pokémon called kommo-o were Alola’s equivalent of _scyther_ : challenge-ready, and with the ability to respect not killing an opponent, as long as they weren’t hunting.  

Bewear were another line that lurked in the dense growth of the island, but more caution was needed for their careless, thoughtless ways. Not really _encouraged,_ except for the more experienced.

So all in all, the island was the perfect challenge for battle maniacs. If the battle boss thing didn’t work out for Red, then Green figured the rest of the island would.

Speaking of Red. He was as much the same as Green remembered him, if with some — just a little — muscle. He keeps his head down and his vocal responses few and short, and Green doubts how well he listens when _Professor Brick-Abs_ shows up later in the day to see them, or the staff who run by technical details with them. 

But as the next day comes and the one after that, Green doesn’t hear any complaints, receive any nervous glances from spineless folk asking him to relay any questions to Red, or to make sure Red was aware of _x, y,_ and _z_.

Which worked for Green. _He_ didn’t want to babysit the guy, and the pair of them rarely ran into each other anyway; except at random intervals on the platform bridges, their exchanges short and sweet.

 

_“Yo. Don’t fall off.”_

_“Don’t get water gunned.”_

_“ **Hah,**  I’ll be fine without you around.”_

 

Once, the idea of them hanging _does_ cross Green’s mind; but with everything else for him to do, it never resurfaces. And so they don’t.

 

* * *

 

And then the night out happens. 

Green hears about it after asking Alanna out for drinks in Hau’oli. She lives there, he’s staying there, and he says she can show him the best spots. She lets it slip that the others had planned a night out in the city for food and drinks for their new famous additions to the tree, and for other ‘positive changes in Alola’.

They all meet at the end of the month outside a battle buffet, Professor Kukui joining with one of his oversized grins and his 9/10 wife, _hello_. The buffet goes about as well as any restaurant visited by battle enthusiasts, with Red and Kukui’s snorlaxes alone tripling the food brought out to keep up the demand, rolls and plates spilling to the floor.

 

_“Who brings a snorlax to a food fight?!”_

 

_“Hahahaha, a person looking to win, cousin!”_

 

The poor shop ransacked and their moods buzzing all the from food and fun, they head to a bar on the beach, where the glasses are decorated in the shapes of toucannons and mugs of sandygasts, and all the tiny umbrellas a person could want.

Green spots Red with an _Oricorio Paradise,_ layers of the drink drenched in the colours of the birds, and with the upper trimmings to match. Red sips from the tiny straw provided, keeping as close to the corner of the bar as someone can. Out by the group table, Kukui’s passion is being let loose as he speaks proudly over the success of the league at the islands, and of Alola’s current Champion, too young to be present.

From the two choices of where to be, Green slips into the barstool next to Red. He rests his elbows on the counter behind his back, his _Pinap Mojito_ numbing his hand.

“So, not sick and tired of having a job yet, are ya?”

Red scoffs. Green thinks that’s going to be that, until, “It’s okay.”

Green’s gives his own hum of amusement, bringing up his drink. “It should be better than _okay_. I admit though, with the set up they have with the trials here, I was worried their trainers would be a joke. But they’re not too bad.”

He raises his drink, readying to take a sip. “I hear Cynthia from Sinnoh’s meant to be coming over this way. Remember her?”

Red nods. “With the garchomp.”

That gets half of a laugh, low and disbelieving. “That’s it?” Green continues eyeing Red with his brow pulled high, but Red just stares at him in confusion, before giving up and regarding the view of the sea.

 _Typical._ Green lets the ambience of the slowing day fall between them, _silence_ not completely the right word, not for Alola. There’s a woman at the table of their group who spares a glance towards them, lingering on Red. Green catches her eyes, and she ducks her head quickly.

Green smirks; pretends to consider if he should _really_ say anything, then gives Red a nudge.

“Mali looks like she’s been wanting to scoot herself into your lap all night.” He cranes his neck, leaning towards Red for a little privacy. “What do you think?”

For a moment, Red glances over to the table curiously, to seek out what Green’s referring to. He must then realise what he’s doing — or that _Mali_ isn’t actually a cute pokémon — and turns away, shrugging in a fashion that’s comes off petulant under the shadow of his hat, making the indifference Red wears sulky from where Green sits.

 _“Really?” That_ was going to be his response? “What, you shy? C’mon, tell me.”

But a Red that doesn’t want to respond does well in doing just that — not that it’s ever stopped Green. Red tries shuffling himself more into a corner of the bar that doesn’t really exist, and Green simply turns himself around, scooting up so close the sides of their legs touch.

“Alright, alright,” Green says with finality. He holds his pause. “One of the guys.”

An elbow goes up on the counter, arm bent, and it’s a barrier between himself and Red as Red cups the side of his face, leaning to push Green out. 

As if that was going to stop Green. “So none of them,” he decides from this. Green takes a second to order a replacement for his empty mojito—and hell, another birdy drink for Red.

Then, returning back to the subject of _bugging Red:_ “You ever looked at a person?”

Typically, no response. The drinks come over, and only then does Red lean back off the bar, surprised to see another rainbow-containing drink.

Green takes his chance. “Asexual?”

Red’s face clouds over, and he drags his frilly glass over the wooden surface, staring at its multiple of colours with a small pout. 

“Talk about pokémon,” he finally says, moodily.

Green rolls his eyes, but soaks in the sound of _defeat_ of Red’s request. He takes the umbrella from his glass and lets it plop into the little place of Red’s.

 _“Sure,_ alright, loser. Tell me about how you pulled off mega evolution on two pokémon.”

So their conversation sticks to the usual, battles and travel and their past and recent going-ons, families back home and ones abroad, until the others have enough of their alone time and drag them back in by the way of a friendly match on the beach.

Green falls into conversation with Alanna afterwards, but heads back to his hotel alone where he drifts into an easy, dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

Unlike Red, Green learned how to have some portion of a life outside of pokémon.

While pokémon battling was a majority of what he lived and breathed, he knew how to take care of himself, how to enjoy the more social aspects of life. He was popular, always, and the older he grew, the ways that people took interest in him — the way they ran their eyes over him — changed. 

Green understood why. He was good looking, always had been, and there wasn’t much he had to do to get someone into bed with him. The real challenge was figuring who would be fine to pick, and who wasn’t likely to be bugging you for weeks after or deciding the two of you were dating now, and making an embarrassment out of you _and_ them. 

Having standards was obvious. But also, don’t just go for any pretty face if something seems off about the rest of them.

Green got better at picking, and in a holiday hotspot like Alola, one night stands suited everyone fine. He did his Battle Tree duties, learnt more about the history of Alola, its traditions and the tapu pokémon, found out where to find his great-great-whatever relative; and, when he wanted more than just an empty bed at night, he went to the bars. 

It was the perfect life for someone like him.

There was nothing else he could need.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...py....

Towards the back of the Battle Tree is a shoreline, made up of outstretching sand than the jagged rocks or high cliffs that span most of the island. It’s only visible from the sea itself, or from a bridge between two specific platforms extending out that Green first spots it from, during a stroll on one of his breaks.

And it’s by either the second or third viewing that Green thinks _huh,_ why not?, and decides to take a visit; to see if he couldn’t reach it beyond the heaping mess of jungle in the way. 

But trudging through said jungle mess was about as much a pain in the ass as it looked to be. It’s all green and stringy branches, reaching high above their heads to make great cover for the pokémon hiding inside. Alakazam takes a lead so that each mammoth leaf she pushes back with her telekinesis doesn’t instantly swing right back into Green’s face (thanks Machamp), and even then, he has to watch every step twice, and still has vines or roots somehow sneaking around his ankles.

One time it’s a lickitung, and absolutely _no_ shrieking occurs because of that.

But after an hour or so of pushing their way through epiphytes, bamboos and heliconias, all green monstrosities — with a splash of red when it came to the last —, the jungle gave way to an endless blue in tune with the rolling waves — a sound Green was _thrilled_ to finally hear so clearly.

From that point, it was just finding a safe way to it. There was a small overhang where they came out from, but a short diversion leads them down a safer dip to the ground, tufts of grass following them when the jungle dirt swaps for peppered sand. It’s soft under the press of Green’s shoes, more like powder than anything heavier.

Alakazam gains a distance ahead of him, but Green doesn’t mind as he walks at his own speed, taking in everything. There was the ruckus of the Battle Tree within earshot, but it was a world behind them, the beach sitting empty beyond what looked like pyukumuku (ugh, gross), crabrawlers, and whatever lurked unseen in the waters farther out. Up close there were no secrets, the sandy shore continuing in sight until the waters turned an icy teal, then their darker, secretive shade furthermore.

But more importantly than that: There was nobody else. And nobody else showed the entire time they were there.

 

_Perfect._

 

* * *

 

And that’s how it is the next time Green visits. He decides to use the space for training, regardless of if he’s on the island already or not. Pidgeot knows the route to the Battle Tree so Green doesn’t have to rely on boats, and there was more privacy in the area — even with the technical close distance to the tree — that was bothered only by wild pokémon, and the disturbance of far-off battling.

Green enjoys the peace and isolation, and enjoys the option to not be caught practising stupid dance moves that are an absolute requirement to initiate z-moves (thanks, great-great-great-whatever-removed relative). Green understands the logic behind it, but it doesn’t mean he has to be _okay_ with it. 

Still, needing to wiggle around his hands and hips wasn’t going to stop him from learning the techniques, perfecting them, and deciding how to establish them as useful tactics in trainer battles. It was just going to take time. So Green — with videos online demonstrating the dances — goes through each of the stones he has, taking turns with his team to learn the moves, spending his breaks on the beach or in the ocean, coming back another day, and then another.

On the next visit, he’s ready to consider sticking a sign on the beach and naming it after himself, or just writing _GO AWAY,_ in case anyone finally sniffed out his personal paradise. 

The fifth time, he regrets not doing just that when he spots a bag and a pile of clothing, and the unmissable sight of a snorlax, pikachu, and venusaur snoozing together on the beach.

 

—hold on there.

_He knows this line-up._

With two noticeably missing water types and part flying type pokémon, Green takes to the waters on Gyarados, going out the same way he’d come in that day. This time however, he pays closer attention to their surroundings, from the skies to the seas in the distance than just their destination.

And from that, Green can make out the missing culprits miles away, where the island’s edges climb into a wall refusing to let in the sea, and no one but the underwater pokémon can be disturbed by their activities. Red is the size of a finger on his lapras’s back, most likely watching as his charizard and blastoise battle from their positions, pumping streams of water and fire at one another.

Green keeps Gyarados low to the water, and considers their options on how to engage.

 

Or specifically: the choice of pokémon clipped to his trainer belt that will best say _hi._

 

_..._

 

The interruption comes in the form of pointed edges, taut leather skin, and with a jaw as dense as stone. Aerodactyl startles Blastoise and Charizard’s attacks into swinging off-course as he swoops in, riding the air while screeching a piercing cry. He swerves back in and so close to Charizard that he almost grazes her in doing so, and it’s hard to tell even for Green if her sudden push backwards is what keeps the both of them from colliding, or his pokémon’s own precision.

( But c’mon, it’s obviously the latter. )

Charizard roars and snaps off a fireball in anger and warning. It doesn’t hit, and Aerodactyl doesn’t give it any acknowledgement as he comes around again to face the four of them directly, this time keeping himself airborne, and in place.

Red doesn’t seem to know what’s going on. He looks over his shoulder briefly in the direction Aerodactyl came, but then returns to the issue before him. It’s a difficult situation to assess: if the aerodactyl is a danger, searching for a meal out of them, or just after the challenge of a battle. Or is the aerodactyl being nothing more than a mild annoyance? Does Red want to go on the offensive regardless, to chase them off before the ‘ _wild pokémon’_ can make up its mind?

—Gyarados doesn’t give him a chance, when the hard shot of a single water blast across the waters knocks Red off his lapras, and into the sea. Green roars with laughter, struggling to keep himself balanced atop of Gyarados, where they’re both stationed in the _opposite_ direction of where his aerodactyl flew in from.

Like what, he was going to give away his location _that_ easy?

Green hadn’t taken Charizard’s lack of humour in consideration, large balls of fire being spat towards them with a great velocity; but Green also didn’t need to wait for Red to resurface to know there was going to be a battle.

If only he could have seen the look on Red’s face when he managed to emerge.

 

 _“Yo! Taking a dunk over there?_  

_We’ll help you take some more!”_

 

* * *

 

Despite the positions they start in, Red hits the shore first with his pokémon, Pidgeot and Aerodactyl joining them after. Green can see Red’s team more animated now, up and shuffling around the place (apart from, surprise surprise, Snorlax). 

From a distance, there’s some things you can tell, some things that you can’t. Green isn’t paying any close attention to the beached figures as he and Gyarados come into shore, comfortable in taking their time. His body is dripping and exhausted after a handful of visits to the sea — less than Red, of course — and he’s relaxed against Gyarados’s fin, content with the unplanned battle.

He stays like this until Gyarados can lower his head politely by the drier ground. The sand sounds wet and sloppy under Green’s feet as he strolls towards Red, and there’s a jab sitting waiting on the end of his tongue concerning the embarrassing state of Red’s pale t-shirt skin that makes him stand out like a total dork.

Green pushes his hair out of his face smoothly, and gets ready for the delivery:

 

“—What the hell?”

 

Apparently, there were things you could miss right in front of your face. Sunglasses were probably the issue.

For Green, it was how Red’s arms hadn’t been the only thing to thicken, his chest more suited for the word _biceps,_ or _brick wall,_ or _Professor Abs Lite._ There were abs, even; _abs,_ leading down Red’s stomach and under the band of his swimming trunks, which Green had no inclination to see behind, except than to notice the upper definition of his legs that hadn’t been skipped in the apparent workout department.

Workout department? Red worked _out?_ Or was this some freak evolution that proved Red was really part-pokémon?

Seriously— _what the hell?_

To point out the obvious, Green was staring. He didn’t care about this fact, because how the hell do you miss the extent of your colleague-slash-forever-childhood-friend’s physical transformation and _not_ gawk? But as his gaze began to lift, trapped for a moment on that chest again and swallowing, dazed, Green catches a glimpse of the screwed up expression of Red’s face, before a wet lump of sand knocks him hard across his.

“H-hey!”

Uncalled for as it is, the antic snaps Green somewhat out of his stupor. He wipes at the clumps half-blind as Red stomps over to his belongings, but Green is already on his heels, batting at one of Red’s arms as Red grabs for a shirt.

“Seriously, what the hell have you been taking? Pills? Ab juice? _Rage bars?_ ”

Green cops a feel of one of the body pillows, just to know what it feels like, and his hand gets smacked for his efforts. Red throws on the shirt — to Green’s disappointment — frowning the entire time, and he continues to sulk as he folds his arms way too high to cover his chest, looking completely ridiculous. 

“Do you have to?” Red grunts.

 _“You’re_ the one who went to town on the gains,” Green points out, the actually _reasonable_ one here. He then pauses, trying to figure an order to all his important thoughts, and gestures first to Red’s chest, then his face, and then repeat.

“You know that looks better than that, right?”

Red rolls his eyes before sitting, slouching his body in on itself, knees bent up and tucked. No wonder why he kept mistaking him for a _big kid_. 

( But seriously— _what?_ )

“I’m just giving you tips,” Green remarks with a shrug. Honest good life tips! He spreads out his beach towel and plops on down to stretch his legs, and bats at his bag for his bottle of sun lotion.

Instead, his hand hits his sunglasses dangling from the strap of the bag. Green picks them up, and peers through the lenses and into the tinted reality of Red he’s always seen, darkened, his features less defined than they should be. 

Green chews at his cheek, and lets the shades drop.  


“By the way, just so you know: This is my beach.”

 

* * *

 

 

Red still shows up whenever he wants. 

 

Surprisingly, it’s not that annoying.

 

He’s not there every time Green is, and when he is, he’s usually first: out in the ocean or the skies, or using the small beach to practice with his own few z-moves. Red has a new team member he’s training, one that he and his pokémon apparently picked up when they first found the spot.

Or more specifically, the bewear picked up Snorlax and threw him from the jungle straight into the sea.

It was apparently love at first sight. 

But Red isn’t the only one with a new team mate. Green’s addition came following a visit to Kukui’s homely shack to skim the Alolan pokédex (put together so far by Alola’s new Champion—some things never change), a regional variant in mind. The idea was that it’d give his gramps something to be giddy over, give Green himself first hand experience on the differences, and offer him the challenge of a new team mate.

Samson’s z-crystals help pick too, a couple of which he hadn’t been able to use to their full effect with his current line up. And knowing the old man’s interest in his progress with the z-moves and regional variants, Green has a visit planned to see him with the new partner.

And when Samson sees him, weathered skin blemished by the sun and age doesn’t slow the man down. He’s quick to kneel before the icy ninetales to after hurrying over polite greetings, a Kanto pokédex flipped opened in his hand.

“Oh ho! Remarkable, isn’t it? How one can change their entire make-up to the complete opposite of what they first were. But ninetales have always been known to be a mysterious sort; I wouldn’t be surprised to hear a version of them exists in deserts in far off lands.”

 _Gramps._ That’s all Green can think of is _gramps_ , before any actual recognition of what’s being said. Green knows better than to be fooled, but he can’t stop his brain from becoming alert, confused as to why the old man is here, when Green knows he isn’t.

And it really doesn’t help when they babble on exactly the same too. “Of course, humans are the same. We change to adapt to our surroundings: people who live in the higher altitudes have a better change with the air than anyone down close to the sea. We all do what we have to, to survive.”

The ninetales sits with a slight wariness for the man that borders between interest and unfamiliarity. Samson offers a pecha amicably, and Ninetales gives it a few sniffs before withdrawing his nose.

“Too sweet for you, eh?” Samson chuckles. “Not to worry! I’ve got more inside.”

He looks at Green at that, and Green signals for Ninetales to follow, up onto the wooden porch and into the bungalow. Most of the flooring was the same timber as the walls, and Green stops where a rug splays out leading to cushioned chairs, tells Ninetales to do the same. Frosty boy was already dripping from the ice bath he gave himself on the way; there was no need to give the furniture a soak too.

From the kitchenette, Samson talks over the distance. “Have you used a ninetales from Kanto before?”

Green shrugs. “Maybe in another life. Caught one, didn’t bother after that. I had a growlithe I wanted to turn into an arcanine.”

“So you have no two variants to compare to?” 

Green doesn’t miss the hopeful twinkle in the question. Geez, _just_ like gramps. “I’ve got an exeggutor, but I am _not_ training one whose head won’t fit through most front doors.” With that assertion, Green jabs his thumb in a direction. “Hey, I’m turning this on.”

 _This_ being a fan spotted nearby. Green clicks it onto its highest setting, gesturing for Ninetales to get close. The machine perplexes the pokémon at first, head twisting this way and that as the air blows into its face. But then it must seem safe, and he leans into it, his mess of curls sweeping back and his eyes closing cheerily.

“A shame,” Samson sighs belatedly from his kitchen.

Nevertheless, following some light chit chat and a few berries tested for approval, Samson manages to get Green and Ninetales to show off a fairy-type z-move, despite Green’s very honest point that he doesn’t know the dance off by heart.

‘Luckily’ for them, Samson does, and is an enthusiastic teacher.

 

When they leave, they do with a pamtre berry secure in Ninetales’s mouth, Samson seeing them off at his front door. 

 

“Come and visit again, Green. I’d like to know how you adapt to the Alolan islands!”

“Haha, you say that like I’m gonna evolve.”

“Who knows, who knows? You’re still young, and we all have room to change.”

“Y’know? You and gramps should meet. You’ve both got the old age kooky wisdom thing going on.”

“Haha, I’d like that!”

 

* * *

 

But back to the usual schedule.

The Battle Tree has regulars to it, the more dedicated of them early arrivals. Being early means warming up against veterans, which also means having a chance against Green or Red if you’re lucky. The structure of the Battle Tree is to get people battling at their own skill level, but it’s not so strict to demand it at every opportunity. If it did, it’d get boring quick for everyone _but_ the newbies, and nobody needs bored trainers in one place.

For Green, there’s no telling who’ll manage to show up first for a battle. There’s always _someone_ waiting around his platform when he arrives in the mornings, or a pair of someones together in the process of deciding who’ll get to challenge him first. His and Red’s platforms are the only two whose places of battle stay the same, on opposite sides of one another, separated.

Different challenges, different paths.

So anyone can be there when he arrives, though Green has faces he’s become accustomed to seeing in as time at the tree goes on. But when he comes in one morning on Pidgeot’s back to start his day, _Red_ isn’t a figure he suspects to see waiting when they land down.

Seeing the other Pallet man is a surprise, to say the least.

“What’s up?”

Red shrugs. Unhelpful, but that tells him it isn’t important, so that’s fine. Green deals with himself in the meantime, lets Pidgeot rest and retrieves his travel mug and breakfast from his bag. He gives Red a pointed look, but doesn’t bother to wait for him to make up his mind. With his coffee steaming from his cup, Green takes a seat off the side of the platform, legs dangling, the sea in distant view.

Green’s joined after the first bite of his roll. Their platforms are at the highest point of the entire battle structure, and the scenery from Green’s sweeps across a portion of the jungle coming into the facility, over the grassy path and rocky elevations that end abruptly. They can see the people coming in from the road, which isn’t why Green eats there. It’s just a nice spot, to sit and think from, and he can almost forget that Red is there. 

Until he finally speaks. “How was he?”

“How was who?” 

“Relative.”

Oh, right. Green told him about that. “Fine. Alive. Like a super-tanned version of gramps.” He rolls down the serviette around his wrap, readying for another bite. “You came over here to ask that?”

The motion of a shrug catches the corner of Green’s eye, which isn’t funny until he thinks about it. “You came over here for nothing,” he states, but doesn’t care to check for confirmation. Hell, who knew; maybe that was exactly it.

It wasn’t a battle anyway, that Green was sure of: Red never kept back his interest in a fight.  But something like conversation trickles between them anyway, through the peace of the early morning.

 

“How’s Ninetales?” 

“Him? Alright. His ice ball’s keeping him cool. Putting it near the air conditioner before bed seems to be working. You thought about upgrading your guys’ balls?”

“Mm.”

“There’s a good shop in Melemele. Malie City over in Ula’ula sells apricorn balls if you wanna try any of them. You been?”

“Mmn.”

“It’s alright. More Johto than Kanto though. Melemele’s better for more the up-to-date stuff.”

 

Alright, sure—to anyone sensible, it’s a one-sided conversation consisting of him carrying and Red giving the occasional hum and word. But Red’s always been good at listening, and that’s just how he is, and Green has _always_ had enough to say, so it works. There’s nothing distracted in the way Red responds, and it turns out that Green’s the one distracted when Alanna surprises them with a _alola!_ and a smile from behind.

Red decides not to stick around, getting up to leave. She waves to his back, then turns back to Green.

“Sooo,” she begins with, once sure that Red is out of ear shot, “I was wondering if you were free on Thursday.”

And suddenly, Green isn’t distracted at all.

 

It’s not until later that Green tries to remember why Red visited him, but gives up when he can’t.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s _official_ business Alanna wants to discuss. It concerns the current living arrangements he has with the hotel and swapping them for a more stable — _“cheaper,”_ Green supplies for her — alternative, if he and Red were happy with Alola and the Battle Tree. The management behind the whole operation is run by people like Alanna: you had those who participated, which sometimes the staff did, but then you needed people to promote it, to charge the modest fees for participants that went towards maintenance, and more. 

It was more fun to discuss such business with an Alolan beach nearby, a mai tai drink in their hands and Green rubbing the soft skin of Alanna’s thumb with his, the sides of their arms pressed where they sat. 

Just with Alanna, anyway; he wasn’t doing this when _Kukui_ came around.

Green dips his head towards Alanna’s, the inches between them already closed to the point where only the counter of the bar was keeping them apart. But there was still their legs, hers as long and slender as usual; a fact Green reminds himself of happily, playfully brushing their calves together.

“I don’t see Red around for this official business,” he notes lowly, their conversation only for them. They were far enough in their drinks to be smiling loosely, Alanna at the point of chuckling after every other thing said. 

Like then, nudging their arms and asking with joking suggestion, “Do you want him around?”

Green plays the part well, throwing up his eyes. “Do _you?”_

“Well…”

She takes the word with her as she leans back, swishing what’s left of the drink in her glass with a low-lidded fascination, slipping a peek of her tongue with a quick lick of her lips. Green gives a shove, _“Hey,”_ then wraps an arm around her waist to tickle at the skin of her stomach, the thin fabric of her strap shirt letting him easily under. Alanna shrieks, laughing, legs kicking, squirming with giggles when Green buries his head into her neck. The first few silly kisses slow into something meaningful, swapping for firm presses along her jawline to under her ear. She relaxes into them, him, her body radiating heat in his hold, the flush off her cheek warming his skin.

Then Alanna turns, using his hold on her for support, and takes his bottom lip between hers. She strokes her painted nails lightly along the side of his face.

 

“Come over tonight.”

“Sure.”

 

He toys with her straps as their tongues fill the space between their mouths, her ass pressed into the granite of her kitchen counter, but her fingers and hips keeping their lower bodies in place. Green drops his chin below the gap between her breasts and licks tiny bites at the her collarbone, and she dips back her head, rubbing her hips into him.

They move into her bedroom, and soon they’re cradled into each other, his hand between her legs that rock into his fingers, her fist around his cock keeping back the elastic of his underwear. She rides him, shadows dancing over the room and him as the light from her table lamp bounces off from her body. He drags fingers down her thighs and digs them into her hips, every breath heavy and loud and marking the bedroom walls. She finishes with her legs wrapped around his head, his tongue to her clit. 

They stay sprawled out on her bed for a while afterwards in the afterglow, the silent peace, his arm across her bed and her body tucked into it.

He gets up to go to the toilet after a time, washes off with a damp cloth where the sweat’s dried over his shoulders. Alanna’s under a blanket when he returns, raising her head from the pillow as he reaches for his things all over her floor.

“You can stay.”

Her voice is a temptress at his back, nectar in his ears, a knot in his gut. Staying isn’t part of the agreement.

“I like the night walk,” he answers casually, turning around into her gaze. He meets it to give a flash of a smile, then leans across to kiss her on the cheek.

“See ya.”

 

\--

 

The sky is all indigo, painting the city streets purples and greys, the peaceful rocking of the nearby shoreline washing the late night life going strong from Green’s ears. Above, the streetlights are a burning orange against everything else; splotches of vibrancy on a black canvas, like artists dabbing in stars in bold and bright.

There’s stars now overhead. Green doesn’t have to tip his head back to see them when they scatter down into the horizon, disappearing into the sea. He walks with that sight in his eyes, stopping at times to listen to how the water before him is close to calm, but he can hear the weight of it hard in his ears.

Usually, he likes night like these; where nature can erase every man-made structure from your mind, let you slip into a more private place. But sometimes it sinks in too deep, reaches into the parts of you that you don’t want to be found. Where warm eyes offer nothing but comfort, but feel like steel to his skin.

 

_Don’t get attached._

 

Green walks briskly until he’s back in his hotel room, washes off the night from his body, and sleeps in a bed that’s cool and impersonal.

 

* * *

  

That night, Green dreams of home.

 

In his dream the house is filled with pokémon of every type, anything that can reach below his knees. They take up every nook and cranny of the open living room and kitchen, making it impossible to move, to think. His gramps works around the little buggers, chatting away ecstatically about the latest research in pokémon behaviour, causing papers to fly out of his hands to be trampled by the paws of growlithe, alolan meowths and else. His sister sits at the kitchen table, seeming oblivious to the chaos. A ponyta shows up from nowhere and huffs for her attention, and she strokes its snout without turning away from her cup of tea.

“That’s gramps for you,” she says affectionately, a joke between siblings. They’ve both somehow fitted themselves around the pokémon shuffling and jumping around the rooms. But Green stands without a place, unsure of where to go, or how to find comfort in any of this. There’s the chairs near Daisy, the sofa that his gramps sits on, but— but—

He fits nowhere inside this picture, a jigsaw piece out of place.

So Green leaves from out the front door, to find a place to go. The road is quiet and empty of activity, even less than usual; there’s nobody in their gardens, no sound of lawnmowers or people in the distance. Green walks, just going without a destination or place in mind, the houses he knew and town he grew up in becoming fixtures at his back. 

He walks until he finds himself in a field with grass that comes up to his waist, trees gathered on either side behind wooden fences. The way stretches on forward, endless, and it’s the same when he looks back the way he came. 

 

There’s nothing — and there’s no one — out here but him.

 

Green knows, because this is what he chose.

  
  
  


He wakes up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...

Within a few weeks, Green’s swapped the lavish hotel room for one dinky apartment. The difference is apparent with a mess doesn’t magically know to clean itself in the mornings, and an air conditioner that doesn’t get _quite_ as chilled. There’s also the factor of the cocktail bar not being an elevator ride away, which is the most tragic loss.

But that’s picking at the threads of his living arrangements, really. He’s not in his apartment enough to compile any meaningful mess, and the air conditioner is well, still _good._ Also, there’s plenty of bars close by; he just needs to walk a little further than before, and he’s not out of shape. The prices are better anyway, and he should really start thinking about that more than convenience. 

Ninetales has no issues with the new air conditioning either, the customised ball trapping the chill air and keeping it well ventilated for the pokèmon throughout the day. And if the ice type needed any help, he and Alakzam had it worked out. Already a genius at everything she did, Alakazam’s abilities to manipulate icy air into existence for her own benefit bettered with the ice/fairy type around. They were the first two to form a deeper friendship, with Ninetales and Arcanine a given, her fiery typing not so bothersome when paired with her playful personality.

But the most amusing exchange was between Ninetales and Tyranitar. Tyranitar’s initial assertion over the new team member worked in looming over him, nudging him to entertain and play with him as he pleased. But as their battles became more evenly matched, and Ninetales grew more comfortable in his place in the team, Tyranitar decided he actually didn’t really like the cold in comparison to the scorching heat, and went back to skulking around Rhyperior, like a big kid to his mum.

Which buddy, _really?_ And so Tyranitar continued to be the biggest baby of the team. 

Red’s changed to an apartment too, which he probably lives in less than Green does his. He’s been visiting Green’s platform on the regular, which is how he found out about the swap in the first place.

 

“Have you thought about living in a tent?”

No answer.

“Hah, _knew_ you did.”

 

 _And_ he’s still thinking about it. Green can tell in the way Red wrinkles his nose, and doesn’t know why the guy doesn’t. Apparently, Red’s gone for one of the run-downed buildings on Poni Island, which has to be a _downgrade_ from a tent, if you ask him.

“You know they call that squatting, not living, right?”

Red shrugs at the assessment, makes a face to show that he likes it regardless. His body is loose and content, and he doesn’t get so shy anymore about having his shirt off whenever they’re at the beach together. Which takes some of the fun out of it for Green, but whatever.

All in all? This _Battle Tree_ thing was going well for the both of them. 

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, Red even manages to surprise him:

_@red: want 2 go 4 a swim_

_@green: wow do you always type like a teen girl_

_@green: whats special about this swim compared to everywhere else in alola_

_@red: sharpedos_

_@green: what_

_@red: and mantines_

_@green: okay but the sharpedo part_

 

The sharpedos are described as a “ _potential”_ health hazard.

Green isn’t sure how this is meant to be reassuring.

By the sight of people already surfing the waves on the backs of mantines, it is. And despite all sensibility in the world—which doesn’t exist in a 300 mile radius around Red—Green doesn’t care as much as he should.

Which to be honest, he doesn’t normally fuss over dangerous situations, not if the reward was worth it. Said rewards commonly involved pokémon, but not this potential prize. Out in the clinging heat and with droves of witnesses, it was the challenge in Red’s sharpened smirk, the taunting gaze every time Green turned his way that was there to remind Green _why_ he wanted to obliterate Red at his own challenges.

A chance to kick Red’s ass was worth any potential health hazards, always. 

The caretakers of the mantines and gear supply them with instructions, offering to show how to get started, but Red shakes his head to decline. Green prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue, squinting at the annoyingly large terrain of muscle between Red’s shoulders.

“You haven’t done this a bunch already, have you?” 

“Once,” Red confesses, slipping on the life jacket. “Twice,” he amends, and Green’s expression sours.

Red turns to him, his expression muted and blank, before letting his features brighten considerably.

 

Green is _so_ going to kick that tight little ass.

 

\--

 

There’s _some_ small effort put towards practising and getting used to the mantine surfing aspect of their competition, and whatever is Red’s true amount of surfing time can’t be any higher than what he’s admitted. His balancing skills are only _slighter_ better than Green’s — in Green’s expert opinion — once they’re out on the smoother waters, going in circles and allowing themselves to be more at ease about putting their lives into the fins of a fish steak for any roaming sharpedos.

 

_( Don’t come for my handsome meat, don’t come for my handsome meat— )_

 

But then, it’s Red who starts it. They come at full speed from behind, surfing by Green and his mantine and spraying them up to Green’s face, and like _hell_ was Green going to let that fucker get away from a swift payback. 

 

“You know any water guns down there, blue guy? We’ve got some losers to take out.”

 

Luckily, it can’t be the first time the situation has arisen for his mantine as they catch up on the body of a sloping wave (that Green wasn’t expecting, but your feet are secure, focus on Red, _focus on Red—_ ), releasing a jet of bubbles into the waters and shoving the backs of Red’s legs.

Red wobbles forward with arms flailing out, but the feet straps keep him from going any which way, even as his mantine throws the pair of them off from the body of the wave and up into the air above, taking them out of sight.

 _There’s no way Red survived that_ , Green gets to think, until a light splinters through the foam of their wave and startles him and his ride into crashing hard.

Red is waiting for them when they resurface, with Grene hoisted forcibly back up when the mantine flips onto its stomach. Under the clumps of his weedy hair, he can _feel_ the smarmy ass face fitted on Red.

 

_But that was just the start._

 

* * *

 

While not the amount Green might like, his initial revenge is paid, and with _some_ interest. Their mantines are the ones to decide when enough is enough, too spent between actually surfing, battling, _and_ avoiding the other surfer-goers around them to go on forever. They float back to the activity planners on auto, but neither Green or Red give any complaint by the time they do.

Off the fish’s back and returned to shore, Green’s relieved, his feet free and legs moving at more than just the knees. It’s bizarre to be walking again, to have choice, after leaving the reins to someone else. He shakes out his legs, the sand stuck to his feet clinging on.

Arcanine comes to meet him, a towel in her maw and tail wagging. Green takes it with thanks, ruffling it through his hair, and from his spot he lets the view of the beach soak in. The bodies sprawled of people and pokémon on towels and sand, kids building wet sandcastles, herdiers and rockruffs in play; even some exeggcute rolling, and who knows where?

He’s watching to find out; and that’s when Green catches sight of Red, and his towelling slows.

It’s the sun that does it; that, and the water still fresh on Red’s body. It trails, finding cover from the heat in the dips of worked muscle under Red’s skin, falling off his hair and leading to where the skin flattens, softens, the bright shade of the swimming boxers interrupting the journey. But there’s still places for the light to shine off Red’s legs, his calf muscles thick but tight, each band visible at work when it responds to the slightest of movements.

For a second, Green can understand why some guys prefer to be gay. Just cut off the head of the guy inspiring this thought, because that part isn’t relevant. Green could pick out a couple of other figures out with them today, and the effect would be the same.

But something suddenly nudges him and Green startles, realises it’s Arcanine, watching him with brown eyes large and curious. When he looks back, Red’s walking to their things, settled around the lump that’s his snorlax.

Green takes in a sharp breath, then goes to join him and the others, hanging the towel around his shoulders.

“Yo. Time for some sunning now?”

Red looks up, but it shouldn’t be any kind of surprise he’s in the middle of his first instinct: to put on his hat, right over his damp bed of hair.

“Bet you felt real naked without it,” Green drones, rolling his eyes. He settles onto his towel, Machamp, Exeggutor, and now Arcanine all present, the former both enjoying the sun for all its worth. The rest were elsewhere—playing with Red’s pokémon, or maybe exploring when it came to Pidgeot. He gives Machamp a pat on the leg, “Hey, will ya do my back?”, and takes out the sun screen as the muscle guy stretches all of his arms.

The bottle leaves him and knuckles crack, and Green slides off the towel in time for Machamp’s hands to come down over his shoulders. Machamp brushes along the skin to warm it up to his touch, spreading the cream at the same time. 

For those who did have a machamp and _didn’t_ think to have them learn massaging tips off their relatives, they really didn’t know what they were missing out on. Machamp gets into stiffness around his shoulders without asking or being asked, and each rub and slide of his hands is _exactly_ what Green needs.

He sinks into the treatment, enjoying the extra effort being put into a simple re-coating, and doesn’t think of anything else. Except the annoying detail of the glare of the sun behind his eyelids; and when he thinks to grab his shades, he catches Red staring.

Watching. Red ducks his head quick, and Green raises a brow, then grins.

“What? Didn’t think to have a pokémon help you out?” He runs his mind through Red’s list of team mates, resting a hand under his chin. “Bewear’s got the paws for it. You should give them a go.”

Red grunts sarcastically. Green laughs, then chucks over the sun screen with half a second’s warning. 

“Get some on already.”

“Did earlier.”

“When?”

“Before.”

“Before we took a dunk in the sea?” Red nods, and Green leans forward, hangs his arms over his knees—Machamp wants to get to the bottom of his back. “And _how_ haven’t you got sunburnt yet?”

Then again, _‘How haven’t you xyz’_ could be filled in by pretty much anything when it came to Red still being alive.

There’s a grunt then behind Green, friendly and questioning, and he can just see Machamp looking to where Red sits now, a messy splotch of cream building in Red’s hand. Red doesn’t say anything, brow raised in confusion, and Green—after giving the question some thought himself, for no particular reason—acts as translator.

“He wants to know if you want him to do it for him.” But before Red can answer one way or another, Green waves a hand. “Let him do it. You’re gonna look like a cooked krabby otherwise.”

Green slips a hurried “get up” to Machamp, and Machamp complies, up and down again at Red’s back before he has time but mumble any protests. But Machamp is very accommodating, all brawn and all heart, flapping his gums already to allay any of Red’s concerns.

It’s about as funny as Green pictured, and he hadn’t included the splodge of sunscreen continuing to sit uselessly in Red’s palm while Machamp warms his back to his touch, familiarising him under his palms, or two of the four that can reach. Red’s face goes from stone-faced transfixed on the sea, to his eyes closing, head hanging, brow knotting tight when the sun lotion becomes secondary to working at the collection of knots that Red must have under his skin.

There’s something awkwardly distracting about it.

Which is stupid, and dumb. Green falls back onto his towel, shutting out the sun with his shades and lets the sound of the waves and noisy kids chase out his ability to think, or care about anything.

 

* * *

 

More seriously, Green knows his time with Alanna is coming to an end.

It’s in the way his back tightens when he thinks about her, the passing flash of a smile when they see one another that makes him worry she’ll come over. It’s the electricity that’s turned inward on his skin whenever they do hang out, dulled only by the drinks in his system, but only two times. He can’t let it be more than two times.

 _Stay,_ she tells him when the rush is over, in the light of her eyes and the hold of her mouth. The way her body waits for him to come back to bed, to never leave it at all.

They agreed to no attachments, but Green can’t lay the blame entirely at her feet. She’s the one to invite him to talk, no coquettish glances or smiles attached this time. They sit at a table adjacent to one another, nursing drinks for courage, and not for fun.

“I want to know if you can see yourself letting this become serious,” Alanna speaks to her coffee cup, and Green listens through his. It’s early enough to miss the more rowdy of background acoustics, but still the sounds of laughter are out of place. Or it’s the two of them, or him; sitting outside this tiny little cafè, the waves of the ocean creeping around the corners of the building and over his feet.

The words are caught on his tongue all at once, and Green starts, stops, sighs, tries again; _I’m not here for anything serious; this was just meant to be some fun; I’m not the settling down type; I_ **_can’t._ **

“You’ve been a load of fun, Alanna,” he finally manages. When she looks at him, he might as well have said nothing else at all.

But he does, even if he can’t keep his eyes on her. He watches her hands, but notices the placement of her chin that her face hasn’t moved, that she hasn’t looked away. Her hands grasp tighter around her cup, the heat of the coffee a meaningless fact.

 

\--

 

Green offers to walk with her on the beach after they’re done with their drinks. She declines politely, but takes his hand warmly in hers.

“It’s not bad to let people in,” Alanna smiles at him, giving their hands a little swing, a squeeze. She gives him a kiss on the cheek. It sticks with him as he walks along the line of water and sand, taking the offered walk alone.

The waves reach his feet for real this time, but it doesn’t pour into the parts of him just for himself. His body is stone, and no one, or anything, can reach in.

 

 

\--

 

Just kidding, he’s not _that_ pathetic. Come on. _R_ _eally?_

 

\--

 

He goes on, because that’s not the end all, be all of his life. He’s a success at the Battle Tree, the beach drinks continue to be cold and sweet, his mastery over z-moves and working them into his strategy is impeccable, and life couldn’t be more perfect. Famous trainers from Sinnoh come and go, and so do faces from Johto and Kanto, their beach bods on display.

(To Green’s knowledge, Bruno and Chuck _always_ have their beach bods out, and Koga is—thankfully—more dressed, and rarely seen by human eyes. Outside of battles, anyway.)

Arcanine huffs and sniffs and hangs around his legs and makes him stumble with inquisitive eyes, but she gets like that sometimes. Alakazam has the good sense to look the other way, knowing there’s no argument to be had in the first place.

Red asks once, prompted by nothing at all, “Are you okay?”

“What?” Green looks at him with surprise, making sure that each feature of his face is slotted into its proper place. “Why’re you asking?” 

Red stares, and Green doesn’t flinch, but knocks Red’s shoulder after too long. “C’mon, weirdo. What are you trying to do, freak me out before a battle? You won’t beat me with tricks,” and he challenges him to a warm-up battle, get this morning going already.

But Green reckons a little later that maybe he read too deeply into the question, and that it didn’t mean anything to begin with.

It’s just a moment though, and hardly important. So Green forgets, and finds instead a surprising welcome when Red asks him along for a trip one day, the location of which they whittle down between them by interest.

 

“Ula’ula or Akala.”

“I’m not taking a trip up a volcano when I already live in one every day.”

“Mt. Lanakila?”

“The snow mountain.”

“Mhm.”

“This is me making fun of you, you know.”

“Mmmmm.”

“I could just kick your ass at mantine surfing."

What’s that look?

Think I _can’t?"_

“...We can do both.”

 

* * *

 

They do both.

There’s something ridiculous about the whole thing, and Green doesn’t know when he realises it: before they leave, or when Mt. Lanakila is looming in view. The fact might finally cement itself in dealing with Red’s travelling habits, like: refusing to care about directions and going in the complete opposite direction of the mountain; putting up with his awful waking times while also insisting they _never_ sleep at a hotel; trying to take _his_ phone when, surprise, taking pictures of every single sight and pokémon results in a full memory at some point. Especially when your pokégear is old and embarrassing.

“I didn’t even know you liked taking pictures,” Green says as Red flips through his beloved album, deciding on which he can give up on, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth. 

He slips it back in just so he can go, “Mhm,” then lets it peek back out.

They take the least accommodating route of climbing Mt. Lanakila, Red’s need to sidetrack-and-backtrack included. Not a single one of their pokémon makes clear their disagreement of this plan, Ninetales and Arcanine’s reactions thrilled ( _go figure)_ , Red’s Pikachu’s agreeable ( _whatever)_ , Blastoise creepy with its constant grinning, and the actual _sensible_ members of their teams not deserving that title.

So Green complains for all of them, through every route retaken, through every inch of every cave system investigated, and each actually-that’s-a-nest disturbed and its occupants sent into a frenzy. 

 

“Your blastoise squirted a huddle of glalie! _Glalie!”_

“We’re okay.”

“We’re okay because _my_ Arcanine was out.”

 

“And Flash Cannon.” 

“I’m not giving the guy who started the stupid fight any thanks.”

“Bore.”

 

...

 

“So, what do you think of the place? Thinking of moving in?”

“Nn.”

 

“Really your shade of dull, drab, incredibly freezing. I could just leave you here and head back.”

“Hmph.”

 

“Ohhh, what’s wrong? _Snow jokes_ out of fashion for ya? Too bad. I’ve got a collection to thaw out."

**…**

 

“...Vanilluxe look really good.”

“Huh? Uh… I guess if you like ice cream, sure.”

“Yeah....”

“...”

 

“...”

  
  


“...Wait, you’re not— _no.”_

 

When they reach the mountain top, they do so like any sensible pair: in the dead of night.  Snowflakes ride the odd passing breeze, but there’s nothing more dangerous than that, and the pokécentre thankfully isn’t far from where they surface, a warm glowing globe in the frost and dark. Ninetales has long since slowed down despite his earlier glee, and Pikachu sprints ahead to act as their light in the walk to the waiting double doors.

There’s no one at the desk when they enter, shutters covering the café and chemist, but there’s plush chairs and vending machines, the latter which Red fiddles with as Green hoards the nearest sofa with arms spread. Ninetales takes in the smells and gleaming surfaces with unfamiliar interest, then settles quickly on the tile flooring close to Green, happy to get off his paws.

“Here,” presses a voice—Red’s, Green finds when he opens his eyes, spotting the drink in hand waiting for him. 

Hot chocolate.

“Thanks,” he says with a note of surprise, taking it in gloved hands, before ditching them for the warmth of the drink. It’s a childish pick Green thinks, hot chocolate, then admits that isn’t _really_ true; but he also can’t remember the last time he did drink it except as a kid.

And when he remembers that, he can imagine the taste thick on his tongue, late nights and sleepovers and hassled older sisters. Young and aimless, happy. Carefree.

Centre hot chocolate probably wasn’t going to be as good as what Daisy would prepare, though.

“Oh—are you okay?”

The night shift nurse appears from behind the counter, and Red nods while Green waves a hand at their concern. They chat a while, him and Red, allowing the nurse to heal their pokémon, and then they grab a bed from the bunk beds available in a separate room, two other people already sleep.

 

* * *

 

Green dreams of home, the entire second floor converted into a bedroom loft.

A loft, giant sleeping area, one or another. The ladder sits between the living room and kitchen, a small oak railing protecting the space where Green enters from, blankets and board games invading the floor.

Red is up there, no older than nine. But Green is still his real age, minding his head on the ceiling that shouldn’t be so low and cramping, but is.

“Let’s play,” Red says, opening the board game, the pieces scattering all over without a flat surface to sit on. There’s too many bumpy blankets for that, and little Red doesn’t care about making room.

“I don’t want to play,” scoffs Green. “Not that. I’m too old for games.”

“No you’re not,” sulks Red. He shuffles a piece around a plain, dreary board, and Green knows the story spilling out from the game just by watching: skirmishes with soldiers and lords, and one of his units is stuck in a forest, can he get out? Of course they can, but they have to hurry.

It’s a movie playing out before him; but it’s just a board too, when Green looks again. There’s voices and music below them on the first floor, fun, homely, and frustration simmers in Green’s belly. It’s his home, but he’s not even a part of it. Red isn’t even the right age. 

“Let’s play together,” he says to Red. But Red is in his own world now, doesn’t seem to hear him, and this makes his stomach boil more. “Whatever,” he says without a voice being given to the word, and climbs the stairs down until he notices the herd of mareep in the way, what the hell?

 

Green awakes drowning in their wooly fur, lashing out profanities, the tip of one on his tongue.

 

It’s still dark.

  


Fucking mareep.

 

* * *

 

Before they leave in the morning, Red wants a picture of them on top of the mountain. They slot into one another so tight that Red has to put an arm around Green’s waist to fit them into the view of his aged old pokégear.

It’s distracting. It’s uncomfortable. But he focuses on the camera, making sure he looks perfect before giving Red permission to keep it.

\--

Back on the boat to Melemele, he asks Red a fairly reasonable question.

“Why did you ask me to come with you?”

Red’s got his mouth around a juice bottle— _Ab Juice_ it’s called, and yes it exists, and _yes,_ Green had a lot to say about it—and he pauses in his thoughtful way, eyes averted from Green to the juice bottle, to the ocean, to back to his drink bottle again.

“Thought you needed it,” he says finally, voice close to melding with the spitting waters on either side of them. 

“Who,” Green leans back grinning and relaxed, a feat difficult in their stiff chairs but to be admired. “Me?”

But then he pauses, considers the purpose and actual reality of what they did, and the curves of his smile slip.

“You thought I needed you dragging me down every hole and being stuck with you for 48 hours,” he clarifies, and starts to realise this whole trip for the actual torture session it was planned to be, clearly. 

Red doesn’t answer him, and his frown grows deeper, and with no answer one way or another Green shoves into the side of him — “Jerk” — but really, what else could he expect?

 

The big kid.  


( The thanks he knows he should say stays stuck in the back of his throat. )


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...birth....

All you have to know about the mantine surfing part of their hangout is that Green dunked Red harder and better than any of the times Red got lucky to trip up his mantine.

 

* * *

 

They have a few more competitions like that, though Green takes visits with just his pokémon and himself than always with Red. It’s fun, and he needs the practice, and there’s actually a scoreboard involved that Samson excitedly tells him about when Green relays his interest in the Alolan sport. Which Green _did_ know about it, but often slipped his mind.

Like _oh yeah,_ there’s more to it than just kicking Red’s ass.

It’s one of the many methods of Ass Kicking they’ve found, their competitions not just in water sports. Such as: How many battles each of them can get through in a day at the tree; who can uphold the longest mega evolution, and how many in a day; who can knock off who first from the back of their swimming/flying/other riding pokémon. And that’s just to name a few.

Who knew there were so many ways to prove yourself better than someone else?

Younger him, probably. 

It’s nice though, the change in pace to his life. The added addition of dusted off hang-outs he hasn’t engaged in for years—not beyond the occasional friendships with benefits, the one night stands. The parties during league events. When he ran his gym. 

Of course, he has a few hobbies to drag Red into himself. And _often_ by dragging.

“I _am_ going to find out how much alcohol you can get through ‘til you’re puking on the beach,” Green tells Red on his fourth supplied cocktail, which is when Red finally gets suspect of the flow of drinks. Or not; Green was just willing to share his great plan by then. He was on his third, a drink lower than Red’s because he believed in actually tasting the drink before downing it. 

Red voiced no complaints, and even twisted Green’s arm (read: did not rebuff) into turning this experiment into something fun for them both with a game of _Never Have I Ever._

“Lucky for you,” Green announces with a wave of his phone, “I’ve got an app with questions ready.”

So they swap their cocktails for shots, and Green starts them off:

“Never have I ever cheated at this game.” Well, there goes a drink for him. “See? That easy. Now it’s your turn.”

 

_Never have I ever…_

“Made fun of someone.”

**Green - 2, Red - 1**

“Who doesn’t? Some of the questions are crap.”

_Never have I ever…_

“Stolen.”

**Green - 2, Red - 2**

“Never?”

“Never anything I’d call _stealing._ What did you take?”

“Stole from crooks.”

“I call that reclaiming.”

_Never have I ever…_

“...had a crush on a friend’s sibling.”

 

**Green - 2, Red - 2**

“What’s wrong with my sis?”

 

“I...”

 

“She’s too good for you, but what the hell? She’s worth a childhood _crush.”_

“...”

“Geez, loser.”

 

The game continues a few more rounds until the vodka finally hit Red’s system, and the alcohol circulating his inactive body was no longer an acceptable state, his tapping foot under the table being swapped with the urgent need to _move._

“Every time I breathe I taste the alcohol,” Red shudders under nearly 35°C of late afternoon sun, walking briskly along the pavement spanning the entire length of the beach, twice. Green laughs without remorse and follows, until the effects of keeping up with Red’s pace becomes a little too much exercise for his (drunk) sensible condition.

So he lets the guy do what he has to while enjoying the bliss of a weightless body sprawled in a chair with an umbrella shading him beautifully from above.

Who knew how fun it could be to watch a guy pace over and over? God, Green was not going to do anything for the rest of his life.

“Having fun?” 

“Bwuh?” comes out of Green’s mouth, a very common and normal sound one makes when spoken to suddenly. The comfort of his stupor then ebbs, when Green sees who it is standing there, her gaze out on the street occupied by Red.

“Never have I ever?” Alanna guesses. Green sits himself up promptly, knocking his elbow off and slamming his fist against the table in doing so. He inhales sharply, definitely not in pain, and very casually leans back into his chair (that luckily has a back to it).

“Hey— how’d you guess?” He nods his head in Red’s vicinity, manually breathing. Manually everything-ing. “I should introduce him to dancing. He can use his z-moves on the floor.”

She laughs, and the joy of it clings to the inside of Green’s ears, creeps down a little further to his chest. They talk about what they’ve been up to, how they’re doing now. There’s no awkwardness to it, no reason for it to be weird; they’re still friends, with enough time since _then_ passed. 

Alanna shares she’s with friends and with a co-worker who’s been giving her looks all night (“Oh?” Green pries, and Alanna tips her head, unwilling to share).  “Let me know if he does anything wild like strip, and send me a photo,” she throws in.

Green feigns shock. “So you _did_ want Red on the other arm, huh?”

She shoves him playfully on the shoulder, then leaves Green with a goodbye, and _it_ —that being Red, who’s stopped his repeated trek to slump against a lamp post.

“I’m hot,” Red whines whiningly.

“It _is_ hot,” Green points out, very sensibly. 

Which gets more guttural whining noises from Red until Green relents, and does the least fun thing of all.

 

* * *

 

He takes Red to his apartment. 

Because “We’re going back to your place” is answered by “I dunno if I wanna fly”, and remembering that Red lives on Poni Island, in the _dumps._ So that leaves them with Green’s, and at least the walk there has the benefit of random tunes being played for entertainment.

Until Red decides he wants to stop and listen to everything, and so that ruins that. 

They get back eventually, with some embarrassing fumbling with the key to the door (he’s not _that_ drunk), and Red goes straight for the couch, getting comfy with the pillows. Green heads into the kitchenette for the sink and cupboards, pouring two glasses full. He wonders if there’s a bucket under the sink, but why the hell would there be a bucket under the sink?

Still: “Are you going to be sick? Because I don’t want to watch.”

“Not sick. Just hot.“ Red brings his head from resting off the top of the couch, takes the glass offered and sips from it.  Green sits beside him, feeling the slur of motion behind his eyes. Takes a few sips of his own drink, and notices Red looking around the room with his glass to his lips.

“It’s empty.”

“Mhr?” Green checks the exact same view of the room, and fails to see what Red does, or doesn’t. There’s all the trimmings of any basic apartment, his bookcase filled and his coffee table cluttered with a couple of magazines. So _empty_ isn’t the word that comes to mind, personally.

“What’s in _your_ dump?” he asks.

“Dunno.”

“That’s a lot.”

Green sets his glass onto the coffee table and stands, figuring that if this is where he’s going to be for the night, he might as well get some music playing. There’s a tiny radio settled on its own shelf in the kitchenette area he’s fiddled with before, the reason it thankfully goes straight to familiar music. A relief, for a messing around he doesn’t want to do.

When he turns back, Red’s toying with the hem of his shirt, deliberating what to do with it. There’s a red flush to his skin, remarkable against how well it’s browned, his stomach now even a better colour of golden than it used to be months ago. 

“Just take it off,” Green says, a note close to dismissive. He holds onto his tongue, then decides, screw it—“You might as well give me something to look at if we’re going to be here.”

The fingers gripping the shirt tighten into an impromptu fist, then loosens, and Red raises his chin sharply in Green’s direction. He’s questioning him by the round show of his eyes, the way his hand trembles lightly in place: unsure, perplexed. 

But Green knows what he said. He doesn’t falter under the stare, won’t make anything out of the implication that doesn’t actually exist—it’s just words. Meaningless words. 

Whatever Red thinks, the shirt does come off, pulled up over his head in the cross of his arms.  It hangs uselessly for a moment in his hand, until Red lets it drop to the floor.

His gaze drops with it when it does, but then he brings it back almost eagerly—albeit nervously—onto Green. Red shifts to sit himself more upright, like a guy waiting outside a doctor’s office for results, and the door’s just been opened.

Huh.

Green takes a slow pace to the coffee table, picking up his glass with the figure of Red kept in his view, letting him linger in his sight above the rim before the right moment. But Red’s expression hasn’t changed when he finishes his drink, the shadow cast over Red’s face by his hat failing to mask the obvious. His nipples are hard, his lips twitching, parting, biting, settling to act normal; small acts, but all meaningful when you’ve seen them before, coaxed them into bed and around your dick. Sucking you off, moaning around you.

It is hot, after all. 

“Got something you want to tell me,” Green says, his voice trained flat. His stomach is responding to more than just alcohol now, and he wants to soak in the view of Red’s body on show, but refuses to allow his gaze to drop too soon to see _muc_ h of Red’s attention he has. He’s waiting for Red to find him an answer, to struggle over it. And of course he does; words are the one strength that Red can’t conquer. His throat must be constricting, that tongue of his wanting. A working tongue, but not for talking.

Red shifts in seat, squirming. The scene fascinates Green: this control over another guy so ready for the taking, and a line not yet fully crossed.

Green could help Red save face, of course, to make it out like he doesn’t _know_ —that Red wants him, sexually, but is apparently too paralysed to know what to do. His dick twitches at the knowledge, and maybe that’s a little gay, but it’s not like Green is the one who wants to have his dick in his mouth. To have Green’s cum dripping off his chin, onto his chest; gasping, overwhelmed, his tongue on his balls and wanting _more, more, more, **please.** _

Just, if Red wasn’t so _bad_ at this; and that’s why he doesn’t deserve a save, doesn’t deserve to be given an escape. Green sets down the glass and steps around the coffee table, around Red’s legs. Red shrinks back into the settee, which is good, so there’s some acceptable space between them when Green balances himself with a hand next to Red’s head on the back of the couch, his hips high and off Red’s lap as he sits over him.

“I said,” Green repeats, enunciating each word with a drunken husk, “have you got something you wanna tell me.”

Red’s face is harder to focus on this close up, and Green doesn’t like how spread out his legs are like this; revealing, free for anything to happen. There were layers in the way, but that didn’t stop from some good foreplay happening before they were off.

A hand moves onto Green’s knee. It rests there, and it’s so— _nervous_ , that Green doesn’t suppress the smile growing across his face. What he can tell of Red’s face is how dark it is, and not because of that stupid hat— _tha_ t thing Green finally figures to take off, to a whine and Red’s dismay, who goes after it but can’t when it falls behind the couch.

Red lowers his chin, averts his gaze. It’s not the brush of Green’s hand from the space behind his ear to his cheek that gets Red to look again, but the touch of Green’s thumb across his lower lip, thin and damp.

His eyes go from closed to fluttering up, meeting Green in all their weakness, submitting to him. The alcohol rolls off his breath, and it would be so _easy—_

Green leans in. Red inches forward; but Green misses the tilt readying for a mouth, bringing his lips close to Red’s ear instead, their cheeks hot and pressed against each other.

“If you’re gonna jerk off to me,” he whispers, “clean up.”

Green only catches a flash of the sudden shock as he stands back up, shuffling on his feet when they nearly stumble. But Green gets his leg over Red’s without any more trouble, and heads to his room without looking back.

“Night,” he says too cheerily, and shuts the door behind him. And it takes forever for the muscles of his face to stop aching, when all he wants to do is laugh, laugh, and laugh. 

 

* * *

 

Predictably, Red isn’t there in the morning.

 

* * *

 

 

And Red doesn’t visit him at the Battle Tree.

 

* * *

 

 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Red’s avoiding him, but it’s pretty amazing the lengths he goes to do it once Green realises them. It’s more than just not coming to his platform in the mornings, getting there earlier than Green ever would, or leaving the tree by the skies at the end of the day.

No. The way Red avoids him manages to stay hidden for a while, until one too many odd sounds and movements out of the corner of Green’s and his team’s eyes leads him to having a pokémon out at _all_ times, and to a blast of _psychic_ energy resulting in the fall and tragic end of an annoying pikachu.

Okay, so it wasn’t that dramatic.

Green had his suspicions, but it’s funny to see the yellow furry rodent trapped mid-air in a bubble all forlorn, the realisation of the past week being solved with an _ah._ It’s smart, if also a complete wasted and idiotic effort. Green was already _allowing_ Red to have his space. Let him think about the state he gets in after a few drinks. Reflect on his—crush. Red reflect on _his_ crush, don’t get that mixed around.

There was nothing for Green to think about it in all this. 

But maybe it was worth getting Red to face the music he was avoiding, which had still been playing the next morning when Green woke up. He sends Pidgeot with the message for Red to meet him at the bottom, and his darling little pikachu kept as the bargaining piece, not fighting too much the bubble he was floating in. 

It takes time, more than what’s necessary for the trek down the platform structure should be, before Red arrives with his head hung low. He lists it as little as possible to pinpoint them—away from the tree and by the undergrowth, just Green, Alakazam, and Red’s pikachu—and then heads over with his shoulders slumped, his hands barely in his pockets. 

He stops before them, misery incarnate; and Green wonders if he’s ever seen a human being as pathetic as this. Pikachu squeaks and claws at the bubble now, which bursts to let him go freely to his trainer.

“Hey,” Green says. Red flinches, slowly raises his head, and peeks under the brim of his hat.

“Stop looking like you lost the house and kids. It’s really embarrassing.”

It seems to convince Red out of his sulking, bit by bit: first by shuffling on his feet in place, balling his fists to help raise his shoulders up. He raises his chin slowly, and finally, there comes the eye contact over a light flush, his heavy eyebrows burrowing down from above.

(Lips chewed, sore and red; hard for anyone to miss.)

Green doesn’t miss a beat, and points out: “You only made it really obvious how much you want me to bang you.”

Red’s face flares in sharper heat, head snapping in shock like a one-headed doduo in headlights, stare frozen. He then ducks back away, probably to stare holes into the ground to make a hopeful getaway.

Green laughs, his folded arms tightening, his insides tightening as well. He lets the former loosen to swing a hand around the back of Red’s shoulder jovially. A miserable Red was _always_ funny, but come on!

“What?” He nudges him, leaning in his head and slouching his back. Just like the private conversation this was, just for the two of them (with no nosy pokémon included), foreheads inches apart. “Can you blame yourself? I get it—look at me.” He cocks his head in a shrug. “You’re not the first guy to be interested.”

He lets his words slip low at the end, melting into the right _voice,_ the same as that night; one lacking the intoxication of alcohol, but still with the effect to linger in Red’s mind, stay with him late into the night.

“Not that I’ve ever gone with a guy,” Green continues. “Not my type. But I’ve been wondering…”

The skin at Red’s neck is hot when Green coils his hand to the other side of where it rests, reaching bare skin before the rim of Red's shirt. He stiffens under him, the light presence of fingers; but Green just curls them around the slope, tightens his hold as their fringes brush into one another’s.

“Did you get off to me?” he asks, a whisper; letting the question sit between them before: “Was it good?”

Green hears the stifled breath under the noise of wildlife and burning torches; so low and hitched, but catching in his ears anyway, arousing something deep in the pit of his stomach. It rattles the breath from his own mouth, makes him want more.

He licks his lips, parts them, tasting already the sweet reaction.

“—H-hi, Red! Green! Um, do you have a second?”

Red rockets back with a force that snaps Green’s arm off uncomfortably, and he hisses, _“Hey,”_ rolling his shoulder to make sure it was still in its socket. What the hell?

Some woman stands there fiddling with her thumbs, a blastoise by her side.

“Sorry, I know this is rude! But I’ve been a big fan of your matches since Unova, and I was wondering if I could ask you about…”

She’s talking to Red, with the occasional glance slipped Green’s way, and she doesn’t have to finish before Red’s nodding his head furiously and going straight to her. He takes her hand with uncharacteristic assertion, and leads her towards the Battle Tree, noises of shock and bashful surprise included.

And Red’s pikachu sprinting after them.

“What the hell?” is all Green’s left with; that, and a big fat anticlimax. A breeze shuffles through the foliage and catches his cheeks, and he touches one, feels how hot he’s gotten, strangely. 

Someone grunts. Alakazam, wearing an expression that’s sick of waiting on him. Green shrugs off her, shrugs it all off, the whole letdown of the meeting.

“Whatever,” he says, to no one in particular. “It was just a joke.”

As in, Red had to expect some jokes with this crush of his, right? It was _Green_ , they were talking about here. And that’s all that was. A joke.

And he doesn’t have to explain his jokes to anyone.

Especially not to himself.

 

* * *

  

But later, Green finds his head isn’t into training. He’s not in the mood for drinks, there’s nothing available he wants to read, and nothing in his apartment that’s appealing. The high-paced music of a foreign language from his radio doesn’t interest him, and the emptying streets with the waves of the ocean in hearing distance doesn’t pull at him like it usually does this late into the day.

He taps his foot when he sits. But it’s there that Green sees his idle phone, and he picks it up, scratching the nail of thumb to the side of the screen. His contact list stares dully back.

There’s nothing else he wants more than to pick up where they left off.

 

 _@green: still thinking about avoiding me_  
  
  


_@red: no_

_@green: good_

_@green: im allowed to tease you you know_

_@green: i cant help if youre going to act shy on me_  


_@green: are you blushing now_

_@red: no_

_@green: are you typing with both hands_

_@red: i am_

_@green: uh huh_

_@green: just making sure_

 

_@green: we should meet up for training on the beach_

_@green: i want to practice some moves_

_@red: ok_

_@green: dont forget_

 

* * *

 

Green goes to bed with intent in his belly, and dreams in darkness and implications.

There’s another body with him, telling by the shifting weight of the bed, the sighs, the shuffling of limbs along with his own. Green’s hips are rocking and his arms are inconsistent; whether wrapped around the back of his partner above him, or digging his fingers into their hips. But what he knows is that he’s hard and wanting, pushing up his lower body for a friction that isn’t as satisfying as he wants to be, choking on the heat and oxygen between them both.

They’re trapped inside a sheet that stretches and confines and Green _hates_ it, but all attempts to peel it off and bring them into freedom and light is impossible. Now it’s against his back, pushing down on him to the point that only his arms and determined refusal to be pushed down keeps him from being forced into the bed. The biggest struggle is each thrust into his partner, the outline of who he can only see in partially. Their gasps are stifled, hitch and familiar. Green fucks them more and more and more, but it’s never enough, until his body finally caves in a mess of sweat and else, until he’s spent, but still some tiny part of him needing.

The shape under him is firm, and that’s all Green recalls of them when he wakes with his underwear damp and clinging to him, and no blanket over him in the first place.

 

* * *

 

 A person’s mood can really change overnight.

 

* * *

 

_@red: can we meet on melemele instead_

 

Apparently, Red had woken up with a change of mind too. The answer would have been a firm _no_ the night before, but Green goes _sure_ , and Red’s offering a reason before Green can even type the question up first.

 

_@red: i want to get lunch somewhere_

_@red: want to come too_

 

Strange. But maybe not that strange. 

 

_@green: sure. if youre buying_

 

Why not?

There’s something about today, this new day, that Green doesn’t want to do—not the meeting with Red, but just in general. Like a hangover, with restlessness turning listless, the eager energy he had for the next day deflating with its arrival. A fog in his head, an uncertainty he can’t name.

But lounging around in apathy is the last thing Green wants to do, or his pokémon. They waste an hour or so on the beaches before heading to the restaurant that Red’s gotten to first, with a menu that’s half typically Red, half actually interesting.

There’s pancakes, there’s malasadas, _spam musubi,_ and then there’s saimin, a dish Green recognises from his time in Maile and orders for himself. Red gets manapuas, steamed buns like they make in Johto, but also a yogurt smoothie in the biggest glass they own.

Green settles for juice. They sit on opposite sides from one another, and have their regular chit-chat, the last week unwelcome from the table after the first “Is this a date?” and the furrowed brow and sulky mouth with a strip of embarrassment between them in response.

He gets his chuckle, and that’s enough.

 

So life goes on, like nothing weird happened at all.  
There wasn’t anything _more_ he wanted to do.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....day! (technically it is your birthday for us)
> 
> thanks to jesse for their invaluable notes of green's utter uselessness.

_So life goes on, like nothing weird happened at all._

For about two weeks, anyway; and that’s being generous.

Red still has eyes for him, a fact that’s hard to  ignore because Red can’t keep a secret to save his life. He stalls a second too long when he sees Green in nothing but his well-fitted swim shorts, goes blank when Green gets too close to him (which Green does just to see the effect— touching his shoulder, speaking close to his ear—when he wants something to be amused by). He asks Green to help apply his sun lotion after they’ve been in the water, and offers to do the same back, with results Green can’t help but criticise when Machamp’s a lot less ticklish at it, less slow and distracted.

He finds reasons for them to eat together, takes Green to his favourite noodle bar in the Seafolk Village that runs out of a submarine, but lets you take the bowls to sit on the docks with your legs dangling off the side, the sun falling red and tired into the ocean.

Red asks him, “Do you want to stay over at mine?” one night, because it’s late and Red has room—but it’s not that sexy when the entirety of Red’s team roams outside and in. Most of them depart the later it gets, but his pikachu stays up in the rafters, his tail flopped over and swaying, and Snorlax is a constant rumbling in the corner.

Green cringes. “You sleep with this every night?”

Red shrugs easily. “I like it,” he admits far too happily.

He _likes_ it. Ugh. Weirdo.

Regardless, the place is bigger than Green’s, and not in the state of cracked walls that the ruined buildings leading to it would have you believe. It’s an open plan like his, the kitchen and living room split by where the flooring rises for the kitchen, and the bathroom, washroom and bedroom hidden behind doors next to one another. Red has a collection of nick-nacks on every available surface of varying worth, claws and sachets of powder, sashes, power weights designed to fit on pokémon like wrist and ankle bands, strewn all over.

There’s even a vest that could only fit Snorlax’s monstrous gut hanging half out of a wash basket, along with some of Red’s actual clothes.

Other than that, there’s free-labelled magazines on the coffee table that Green notices when they sit down, second-hand books with the price tags still stuck on the corner, and also a PC tablet, surprisingly, that Red thinks to turn on as they chat. He shows Green videos of tournaments in other regions, pages on the latest battle gear and training methods.

 

“You read this kind of stuff?”

“I like new ideas.”

“Huh. I just suspected you to wrestle bewear all day.”

“I can’t battle _just_ bewear.”

“I wasn’t being serious.”

 

“Oh.”

Red grabs them tea and snacks while Green continues to scroll through some of the pages, and finds, when he tabs to the menu screen, the photo of him and Red at the top of Mt. Lanakila, grainy and half-covered in icons, apart from their faces.

He switches it back to the internet before Red comes back with the drinks.

* * *

 

Apparently, Red’s “ _free room”_ is the same couch they’ve been sitting on all night, worn, discoloured, and with an expiration date twenty years overdue. It’s also in the same room which Snorlax sleeps and snores his dulcet tones.

How he even gets to sleep is a mystery no mortal human can ever figure out.

But predictably, he wakes with cricks and aches in every part of his body available, and an exhaustion that coffee can’t possibly fix. Not that he can find the damn stuff, leaving open every cupboard in the kitchen unit for sweet relief, which is probably what has Red shuffling out of his room sleepily.

“I don’t have coffee,” Red helpfully points out.

 

There is _zero_ reason to ever want to go back.

* * *

 

 

 _Zero_ reason.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m not sleeping over again with Snorlax singing in the background.”

“Okay.”

“And I’m not sleeping on that couch.”

“...Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Red still has eyes for him, a fact that’s hard to ignore because Red can’t keep a secret to save his life. 

It’s not Green’s fault he can’t deal with tiptoeing around it any longer—when all he wants is to see what Red is willing to do for him.

 

* * *

 

Getting ready for bed, Red looks awkward in his own skin, loitering around in his own bedroom, as if waiting for Green to finish dressing down to his briefs. Green fixes his dawdling with the arch of a brow and the question, “Are you enjoying the show?” suggestively, and Red practically bolts under his blanket and onto his side, his shoulders hunched to keep his arms tucked against himself.

Green doesn’t make a show out of climbing into bed, and the bedside lamp turns off soon after. Snorlax’s snoring can be heard beyond the doorway, but unobtrusive, almost lulling when it’s dulled by wood and distance. 

No wonder why Red likes it.

He listens to it for a while, then lets his own intentions drown it out. Their backs are facing each other, mere inches apart, but it’s a distance taut with anticipation, and Green’s heart drums in his ears as he turns over, the rustling of the thin sheet noisier than the gluttonous pokémon. He comes in slowly, leaning on his elbow when Red’s just a touch away. The front of his legs brush the backs of Red’s once, making him twitch, but nothing more.

Green waits, allowing Red’s shoulders to relax; but they stiffen again when Green runs his fingers down the skin to his arm, and Green leans in, asks close to his ear:

“Is sleeping all we’re going to do tonight?”

It takes a long quiet moment, timed by each _rise, rise, rise_ and _fall_ of Snorlax’s snores; before Red gives his answer, rolling off his side and onto his back. Green can just about make out the pupils of his eyes staring over at him, can tell better the lips parted ever so slightly; the same hopeful want that Red’s been pressing into Green with every look and glance and action when they’re together.

And Green finally concedes, attacking that open mouth with his. 

 

* * *

 

There’s a constant quiver in Red, an undercurrent of electricity coursing over and beneath his skin. It’s present in the desperate roll and flicks of his tongue, and Green feels it in the hands that round the back of his head, the fingers burying tight in his hair and keeping him from going anywhere. Red’s mouth is warm, and it’s hungry, and it’s endless; it makes Green’s cock twitch and his limbs frantic, makes him want to sink into it desperately, the skin of his free hand exploring the landscape of Red’s body for all it can reach.

Which is plenty, and it's everything he’s wanted to know: the press of his pecs, if there is anything, how the rushing blood and beating heart would dance under his touch; the travel downward from Red's ribs to his belly, to the soft skin beyond the tiny button; to how Red would squirm under him and moan in his mouth. Frustrated, teased, but pleading for more before fighting it. Red's knees rise off the bed, giving more mobility to his hips.

It’s like hearing his name, spoken in trapped sounds and every reaction. Green splays his his fingers over the warm skin and the rim of Red’s underwear; holds it there, despite the tiny thrusts Red gives to try and land it elsewhere. He waits, and then slides it under the fabric to where a tangle of pubic hair emerges. Red's gasp is small but sharp, and he backs out of their kiss with on a hot exhale over Green’s face—all without him doing more than touching the base of Red's cock.

The reaction doesn't stop it. Green goes at him, slowly; the touch of a cock not unfamiliar, but his fingers wrapped around the length of another—hot and growing harder in his hand, the veins pressing into his palm, the slick swollen head—strange compared to the giddiness he went into it.

Red is almost paralysed beneath him, behaving for the first time; his hands no longer lost and tugging into Green’s hair but trembling with fingers squeezing into the curved skin of his neck, his eyes lost to the darkness of the night. But not his swollen lips. His swollen lips; it drives Green crazy just thinking of what he wants to see them do, makes him not care so much this new territory of getting a guy off and instead about giving Red a reason to want to wrap those fucking lips around his cock _so, so good._

But what  _was_ he doing with them, as Green slowly beat him off?

Whispering his name softly, breathing noisily, pleading and more in every note that comes out of his throat.

It’s miserable. It’s amazing. Green takes his hand up before the head of Red’s cock and presses his thumb into the mess of pre-cum that’s been staining his boxers, sinks his head down into the crook of Red’s neck to bite into the soft flesh there, and he can’t take it anymore, the pressure on his own briefs and the hitched cry Red lets out.

“You’re gonna suck me off, right? You’re gonna let me do whatever I want? You’re going to let me fuck you into this bed some night?”

Green trails kisses from that neck up to Red’s cheek, his words quiet little whispers that have Red nearly knocking their heads together when he nods, promises, _“Yes, yes, yes,”_ drags a hand down the corner of Green’s body. 

But he can’t get to him, not like Green has access to Red. Green moves out of the way as Red begins to pick himself up on the bed, letting Green get his hand out of his shorts first before sitting properly. Green follows, curses when the forgotten arm supporting his weight the entire time uncurls and aches at the elbow, but he doesn’t care for that more than he does the positions he and Red and going to get into.

Then, the bedside lamp flickers on.

The artificial yellow barely floods them with the lampshade beaming the light onto the ceiling, sweeping it in a ring under its widened hoop. But it still makes Green pause, gets him to recognise a certain reality to what’s going on for where the light does spill onto the bed. Red continues on obliviously, yanking down his boxers, his cock springing free and bobbing as he pulls them off from his legs, and Green kneels there, his thumb still stuck under the rim of his own briefs.

But whatever second-thoughts with their opportunity to come forward don’t, and Green finishes kicking off his own underwear, licking his lips when he notices Red’s inability to turn his gaze onto anything but his dick. 

Green shuffles towards Red, and doesn’t mind when their cocks bump wetly into one another. He starts with soft kisses to Red's cheek, the rush of hormones tempered in the pause and his head a little clearer. Green knows just what to do; the right amount of words and affection, his hands smoothing over Red’s shoulders and down his back, massaging the biceps of his arms. Giving him the meal of skin on skin, the satisfaction of intimacy. 

Not everything is so different in sex with a woman or a guy. Red is easy to please, falls back down compliantly to take Green’s cock into his mouth, Green given the mercy of leaning onto his other arm this time as he beats slow at Red’s dick, watching the show presented to him of everything he’s ever wanted to witness.

His fantasies might’ve involved Red between his legs, but this works out fine. Sometimes Green looks at Red’s dick and wonders, his own tongue licking at the walls of his mouth; but he gives his hips a little squirm instead, tells Red, “Let me feel your tongue more; show me my dick going into your mouth slower,” and is thrilled to learn how more scarlet his cheeks can get.

Red follows him to the word, and they finish, Green blowing his load in Red’s mouth, and Red splattering hot cum over his hand and onto the bed sheet. The bliss washes over white and blank, and Green rests his head on Red’s leg, the two of them sprawled entwined from opposite directions of one another.

 

* * *

 

Red kisses him on the cheek after they clean up and climb back into bed. Green barely registers the sensation.

Red kisses him again in the morning, and Green isn’t sure how to react.

 

* * *

 

For once though, Red is the one to take charge. He gets out of bed, showers and changes, and  the noise of Snorlax’s snoring—which Green wondered the hell it was until _oh,_ right, the food-consuming blob—comes through louder with the door left open.

Alone, Green stares blankly at the ceiling. Mornings after sex and still being in the same bed was a strange and uncomfortable concept (the first night in Alola not included); but so was sleeping with a guy, which was actually the last thing Green wanted to be processing. So, maybe later; right now, there was figuring out what to _do_ thing. Leave? Leaving didn’t seem a bad idea, but that might be awkward to do too soon. It’s not like this was just _nobody._ But would it? Should he be caring? God, he did not sign up for this.

Before he can decide anything, Red pokes his head back into the room.

“Do you drink coffee in the morning?”

The question takes a moment. “Coffee?”

Coffee. Red actually got _coffee._

Snorlax is making a different set of noises once Green is dressed and in the kitchen, judging the taste of the drink—egh, instant—on his tongue. The gluttonous abomination grunts and grumbles, scratching at his stomach like a rake through sand, while Pikachu naps at the very top of his belly, blissfully at peace. They’re both in view where Green stands at the counter, Red sipping away at his own drink happily, and Green wants to look everywhere else but him.

“So,” Green says, when the (relative) peace and quiet becomes too much, “What do you do for breakfast?”

Apparently, breakfast is at the pokécentre by Seafolk Village, where Blastoise and Lapras meet them from wherever they slept by or on the sea. They order pancakes with a glass of juice each, and when Green asks about the lack of any team mates—a thankfully helpful topic of conversation—, Red explains that they all head back to the house and dish out the food themselves from storage.

“You _trust_ them?” Green raises a dubious brow, and adds importantly, “You trust a _snorlax?”_

Red shrugs, a heaping pancakes and syrup stuffed in his mouth. “Pikachu was there,” he explains, except not. Like that rodent could keep a hungry _snorlax_ at bay. “Everyone makes him wait until they can portion it out. Easier with Bewear with us.”

It sounds like a recipe for a ruined house to Green, no matter how Red paints it. Green thinks long and hard about the addition of a _bewear_ to the mess that is Red’s team, tells Red all his thoughts, so as to control the conversation. But the place is intact when they return—surprising, really. The pokémon are moving around inside and out, and it’s a certain kind of chaos, but just a noisy kind.

Red weaves himself all around it, checking on everyone, goes up to where Snorlax and Bewear stand paw in paw, with Snorlax’s in particular turned upright, and kept from misbehaving. Meanwhile, Green stays outside where Lapras, Charizard, and Venusaur groan and grump happily amongst one another, Venusaur’s plant and the ground around her lightly damp from a friendly shower. He doesn’t want to get involved, shaking his head when Red waves him in, and feels his impending excuse in the back of his mouth as Red comes back to the doorway.

“I should be going,” Green says before Red can get a word out or a foot. “I’ve got to feed my own guys, y’know?”

“I’ve got plenty here,” Red insists; but Green puts up his hands, shakes them and his head.

“Nah, you’re alright. Everyone in my team’s fussy.”

“Oh, well…” Red digs the heel of his shoe into his welcome mat. “See you later?”

 _Sure,_ Green tells him—and when he gets back to Melemele, Green counts down the time until his pokémon are finished feeding, once they’ve stopped grumbling and butting heads playfully in the backyard of the apartments.

 “You want to hang out on the beach? Alright, just don’t get in any trouble. Nines, you want to hang out in front of the fan? Fine, but I’m taking a nap. Alakazam, you’re in charge.”

—and when the first opportunity arrives, Green escapes into privacy. He doesn’t think about Red, doesn’t think about anything; he just watches the slow spin of his ceiling fan humming low with each circle, and the distant, faint sounds of life outside his walls.

A haze of nothingness wraps inside his mind, making it hard to discern anything past the moment he was in. 

A person’s mood can really change overnight.

 

* * *

 

Red asks Green next time at the Battle Tree, “Do you want to do something sometime?”

Green tells him, “I can think of a few things,” and sees that Red doesn’t miss his intent.

Red loves the feel of Green’s hands on his body, innocent or not. It can be a light brush on his bicep or Green leaning in to look over his shoulder, and the muscles underneath Green’s palms never fail to tingle and tighten before they relax. Everything about Red becomes off in a tiny, minuscule way, and no one else gets to notice because Red always looks grumpy, always sounds short. But Green knows because he knows Red; Green knows, and he loves it, the way _he_ can throw Red off his game. The way _he_ can change Red like that.

But there is some danger, in that whispering close to Red’s ear can have a dangerous effect: a simple shove to the stomach if Red isn’t totally surprised, or a hard jab to the chest if he’s really caught off-guard.

_“Sorry,” Red said the first time that happened. “Habit.”_

_“T-that’s a_ **_habit?_ ** _” Green somehow said, wheezing, dying, forty years knocked off his life._

Health hazards aside, Red brightens whenever he sees Green. He gains a few extra inches that he doesn’t need, his far-off gaze returning to shore. Sometimes, when Green’s done giving him a shoulder rub or they’re sitting side by side with a large bowl of noodles, or they’re taking in the sun while their pokémon enjoy the beach, just the two of them, alone, Red fiddles endlessly with his lips, pressing them tight and chewing the skin at their backs.

He might even pull the tiniest of smiles, meant for himself. Or flinch, when they’re sat or stood together, or just in each other’s space. They’re not bad flinches, but flinches because Red’s nervous or he’s happy or he’s a dweeb, or he’s some combination of the three. Red swings a legs fondly, but then gets shy or something and curtails it once he notices, pulling down his hat as a means of escape.

But Green notices, because of course he does. He can’t help but notice.

_“What’cha thinkin’ about?”_

_“Nothing.”_

_“Me?”_

_“No.”_

_“Hah. You can’t resist_ **_this_** _.”_

There’s other things Red does too. He brings magazines to Green’s platform that the other trainers share with him so they can read together, because Red’s grasp on Alolan is ‘passable’, and Green can mostly get the gist of the articles. If not, he has a handy translator on his pokégear, to which Red mopes at.

_“That’s cheating.”_

_“Don’t sulk because your hunk of junk is fifty years old and can’t do it.”_

_“Whatever.”_

Red makes the effort, and it takes that night together for Green to realise it. Red comes to his platform, and Red takes him out on surprise trips. Red comes to the beach more often when Green’s there, which didn’t happen at first, and then did, and it wasn’t coincidence. And sure, Green figured that from the get go, but he also didn’t _think_ about it—why would he? There was no reason to consider the collection of little things building up into a theory, or some fancily apt metaphor to describe exactly the spiralling tower it turned out to be. 

Because Red asked him, “Do you want to do anything sometime?”, and Green had replied, “I can think of a few things,” with the exact smirk and suave used to charm any woman he’s been with. But inside him was a panic, the realisation of their metaphor hovering over him, and the fact Green broke his own golden rule of never going for anyone who seemed like they wanted more than just fun, more strings than none.

The morning they woke up in the same bed, their metaphor was already towering over them, and getting closer and closer to toppling.

 

* * *

 

Green gives it five days, their third get-together, to finally broach the topic.

They’re at Red’s place, about 6PM, the take-out Red grabbed all the way from Melemele laid over the table, Snorlax’s hungry eyes surprisingly not visible through any of the outside windows. Red’s in the kitchen taking chilled ciders from the fridge and popping off the tops, handing Green one when he tries to take a hold of Red’s arms to get his attention. Green takes it, sets it aside, says Red’s name again—he doesn’t want a drink, he just needs to talk about some stuff with him first. “You know, about this—about us.”

It goes like this:

 

‘I wanna know we’re on the same page.

See, sex is just fun for me. I just want some fun, y’know?

So—why don’t we keep this fun? It doesn’t have to be serious.

Just you, me… living our lives. Getting together sometimes. Having fun.

I’m not even really _gay,_ so…

What, _me—_ in a relationship with a guy?

The girls would cry, hahaha.

Yeah, Red?’

 

He lets Red’s shoulder go, gives a playful punch to his arm, acts the part of cool and calm while his insides scream the complete opposite. But he gives Red his best smile, gives Red his easiest tone; he doesn’t make it into any big deal, because they’re friends, and it doesn’t have to be a big deal or anything serious. They can still keep this up, if Red knows that it’s just sex.

But Red has long since dimmed, a lightbulb gone out; sucking all air and oxygen out from the building, the tension threatening to break them like glass.

 

Green leaves soon after.

 

* * *

 

This was the way it was always going to be.

Red should have never tempted him in the first place.

 

* * *

 

They don’t talk.

It’s easy not to, for most of the same reasons when they last stopped. They’re on separate platforms with little need to ever get together, and when they are in the same space, when the staff asks for both of them at the same time, or an event that happens where they’re needed to act as figureheads for the weekend, they’re professional, they focus on the job. They don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be, which is how Green prefers it.

That’s what Green has to remind himself: that this is what he wants, ultimately. 

So he goes back to his life as it was before Red, with training and battling and keeping up with the latest news in pokémon. He keeps hacking away at his Alolan-speaking skills, goes for a drink at a bar now and then, but keeps conversations from turning too risque. He’s just got over _one_ mess, and doesn’t need to get dragged into another.

He exchanges e-mails between his sis and gramps, meets up a few times with Samson. Everything’s fine, normal, and life keeps going on no matter what happens in it. Everything doesn’t stop or slow or grey just because things got— _awkward._ Are awkward. Less awkward, or—whatever, you get it.

Anyway, there’s none of that. He has a life with pokémon who have needs of their own. Needs which include bugging him, giving him _those_ kinds of eyes, like they think they can see beyond an act or facade.

If only he could say Ninetales is too new to realise what not to do—but that doesn’t excuse everyone else. Anyway, if it wasn’t for them and a bunch of other things, if the world would just let him relax—

 

—he would be totally fine.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So. 

 

He starts getting his pokémon to watch out for Red.

Before there’s any funny ideas about this, there’s nothing to it. He just needs them to see where Red goes and what times. He’s not going to start arriving to the Battle Tree super early or anything (he went early once, and never again; some people _enjoy_ sleeping). But Pidgeot can see anything for miles and is good to keep watch hidden in the trees, and someone as smart as Alakazam should be able to go unnoticed in her task.

Sure, she might’ve stared creepily into the depths of his soul at his request. But what would his team be if not unreasonably _extra_ about every little thing?

Even Pidgeot had eyed him a little too long. Green had swept out his hands, putting an end to it.

“Look. I just need you to find out where he goes, okay? No questions, no funny business. Just do it, okay?”

So he rotated his team to deal with their absence for a week, and everything was off for it: clumsy mistakes in matches, spilling his travel mugs of fresh coffee, forgetting to buy lunch twice. Everything was just _off off off,_ or maybe it was the heat, irritating Green and making it hard to relax.

Machamp’s massages didn’t help him either, which bothered him more for Machamp’s helpless flop of his lips, the defeated slump in his shoulders.

It goes on for a week, because a week is all Green can put up with. He gathers the pair on the platform, his arms folded expectantly across his chest, the evening winds shuffling every branch and leaf of the tree as it shambles on through. Everything is uncomfortable; his limbs, the way the heat makes his skin unbearable to be in, the agitation in his calves. Pidgeot and Alakazam wear quiet expressions, and Green’s stomach tightens as he taps his foot, the _Well?_ on the back of his lips.

But it never comes out, and he runs his hands over his face and into his air, groaning instead.

What the hell was he expecting?

 

* * *

 

So life goes on, because that was the only conclusion to any of this. 

 

It goes on, until there’s a figure on the beach.

Crossed legs, knees bent and arms hugging them, Green sees the back of Red before he does the rest, not knowing if to continue in from the jungle mess to the sand. He has the opportunity to turn back, all the necessary reaction to want to. 

But he doesn’t, somehow. He takes Arcanine’s pokéball, thinking of the right scenario to come in with, laughing, _oh, you’re here, huh?_ ; use the soft pokémon as a distraction. But then, she won’t fall for it. She’ll go straight to Red, excited, tail wagging and wanting to make up for lost time, drag him into it. Force them into a confrontation that’ll make everything worse. 

So Green doesn’t let her out. It’s just him, around by the dip of land to reach the beach, Red’s back continuing to face him; with the possibility lingering that he might realise he’s not alone and turn around. The likeliness presses on Green colder than anything realistically should, in this Alolan heat.

It bothers him. Actually—it _annoys_ him, this stupid waffling of avoiding one another, and why should they? Why should _he_ have to feel this way when he knows there’s no reason to, there’s no point in wallowing in what’s been done. So Green walks, shoulders straight and revealing none of the weight he carries, as he deliberately makes himself known than to delay and make a big deal out of this meeting.

“Hey.”

Green isn’t looking at Red when he must raise his head, his hands on his waist and attention out to sea. But Red’s chin is tipped, his eyes on him, when Green does look, and he feels his features falter, slightly, when he settles on his faraway gaze.

They sit near one another before long, side by side, the only pair on the beach aside from the pyukumuku washed up on shore. The sand is grainy under Green’s legs, digging into the skin on his feet; but Green keeps his sandals off anyway, keeps himself from fidgeting, or looking elsewhere than the listless waves.

For about a minute and a half, anyway.

“So, nice day, huh? Not so bad around here once you get used to it. No different from being in Hoenn,” Green compares. “I stayed out there two months doing some sightseeing and checking out the competition in the area.” He cocks his head, grasping for distant memories. “Mauville City was something. An entire indoor metropolis? Like something out of the sci-fi movies that used to play on TV. Not as impressive in the flesh though. Not if you ask me!”

He leans back, the tilt of his head now towards Red, his body positioned ready to regard him, but not making the turn. Green’s gaze flickers to inspect Red, hoping not to catch his eye but looking there anyway.

But Red’s head is bowed, turned to neither him or the sea. He stares at the sand between his legs, shoulders bare, cast in a shadow of his own making.

Green breathes in. He takes back his arm behind him and brings his legs half-crossed; one laid flat along the sand, the other bent to rest his arm on.

“Look,” Green says, and instantly regrets it, despite the time taken to get it out. He purses his mouth, collecting his thoughts into wherever he planned to take this; tries again. “I get it. Things went too far. I just… I want things to go back to normal, y’know? Hanging out, mantine surfing. We had fun.”

Gentle persuasion. But it doesn’t seem to even roll over Red, who stays like a statue, a weathered rock impenetrable to anything Green has to give. He swallows against the hardened lump in his own throat, some need to lash out flaring in his chest. 

“Red,” he says; “Red,” again, quicker—”This isn’t my fault. This wasn’t what I wanted—”

“You did,” stops him dead. Red’s hands have tightened around his knees, whitened by the pressure at his fingers. Red opens his mouth again, ghosting over words to find the right one.

“Are you scared?”

Red looks at him, and there couldn’t be a worst time for it. Green’s throat locks up with rebuttals and dismissals cramming his airway, teeth gritting in the breath taken that flares his mouth, heat burning his face.

No. No. _No._ Come on. No!

He lets it all out in a berry blown, scoffing and shoulders shaking, turning away with the disbelief. _“Scared,”_ Green repeats, like a foreign word, but one he knows is _ridiculous._ “Are you serious? Me. Scared. Scared! _Scared.”_

More and more and more ridiculous, no matter the amount of times he says it.

And Red was going to get it soon, surely, what a stupid thing it was to say, to think! Green just had to wait for him to catch up, with him meanwhile shaking his head again, just, _stupid, stupid,_ what a stupid idea—

But it doesn’t come, no matter how long Green waits. It’s nothing but them and the sea, the far off noises of the Battle Tree, if he were to remember and listen for it. He doesn’t want to, but it creeps into his ears at times, as if a reminder that time is moving, that this is real, and this is happening. 

Like the thought: Red isn’t giving him an out. It’s not the way that Green wants to think about it, but that also creeps into him, becoming all the more obvious in Red’s silence, watching the ocean blue. 

In the tiniest, most minuscule way possible—the silence is comforting.

Time passes, pushes them away from _that_ word, but allows time for real thought to trickle in. They’ve both had plenty of time for thinking, but maybe—maybe Green didn’t spend it reflecting about the things he should’ve. Maybe he isn’t really doing that right now either, but there is something in him rolling around, being considered, without him truly knowing _what._

He only knows the feeling of it, and it’s better than giving it a name. 

But it’s quiet, honest, and yearning. It’s the goosebumps on the back of his shoulders when he thinks of the implications of _us,_ and the wall that wants to shoot up and block it out.

Green breathes in, a slip of air between his lips, with his vision on the bleached sand; and then breathes out. It burns into his eyes, his legs already burning under the heat. 

“I can wait,” a, the, _Red’s_ voice says. Not impatient; just honest. “But I need to know.”

“Why?” Green asks after a time. His voice flat, not knowing how else to be. “What’s making you wait,” he asks, the question implied.

_Why would you want to wait?_

“Because I want to,” Red says. “Because,” he adds, pausing, and shifting into the corner of Green’s view and making him look at him. Red’s gaze flickers, from his face to the space between them. “I want us...to go out.”

He fumbles in getting out the words, his hand between them rocking against the sand, his mouth squeezing in obvious embarrassment.

It’s so—Red. And it nudges something real and sincere in Green that he wants to scoff in a fond way. But he smiles instead, lets the edges of his mouth break and pull, and keeps it and the feeling to himself.

And after a time, he finds what he wants to say — what he wants to do, and what he’s _willing_ to do, and try:

 

“I need time. Are you sure you’re willing to put up with that?”

Red barely hesitates:

“I guess.

Yeah.”

 

They look to each other, tiny, stupid smiles on each of their faces. But Red’s is something honest, makes Green grip the sand under his fingers and into his nails, just for something to hold onto under the weight of it. 

“Alright,” he turns away, then shoving Red’s shoulder. “Stop looking at me like that, you dork. I’m taking a swim.”

 

 

 

**_epilogue._ **

When Alakazam receives the order to watch Red for Green, it’s stupidity and opportunity wrapped into one.

Or that’s how Alakazam describes it to him, after a hard day up the big tree and with the entire team relaxing. There’s always human constructions in the sand that Alakazam calls _umbrellas,_ and they sit under them, keeping each other cool while the others do their thing. Alakazam tells him — as the newest addition to their pack — about human civilisations and their team rituals, and he tells her stories of his own kind and where he comes from in return. He’s not sure how she values them, but hopes that one day she will. One’s story is their treasure, and it will mean power to one who cherishes it.

All the same, Alakazam’s lessons are good. He had asked her, if she thought the order was stupid, how was it an opportunity? And she had explained, that’s how living beings are, and especially humans. While their trainer may need to be stupid for a while, it will lead him to do the right thing—that she had faith in.

Because while Green is being stupid, he _isn’t_ stupid. It sounded odd, but he was sure he understood the meaning well enough. Really, it’s hard for him to tell what makes an _ideal_ human anyway. But for all the heat, all his dreams feel like home, and for that he can be grateful for where life has led him.

And it’s hasn’t been as bad as some stories find their end. Everyone’s nice, or amicable, in their own way: Big Horn, who looks like a giant rock is always distant, but that’s her way; Fiery One, who is very very friendly, but also really really fast and wants him to be too; Winged One, who is the same as Big Horn, but a lot like Green too in how he grooms himself, and wears his pride. There’s also Big Jaw, Happy Tree, Blue Giant and Many Things, and he never thought he would be surrounded and be part of such a strange pack. But it’s not bad; it’s a lot more interesting than the mountain he was born on.

There’s even others now, too: The pack belonging to the other trainer, _Red._

They’ve been meeting a lot more now that the _stupidity_ Green was having trouble with seems to be over. They’re always going to the beaches, and he wishes they would go somewhere colder more often, but he’s getting used to it, slowly. The two humans ride on the hot waves or talk forever amongst themselves (more Green than Red), or sometimes join in their games. The other human has another being of ice from the seas, and she’s as smart as Alakazam, and pleasantly friendly.

Just as life has been changing for him, he can see the change in everyone else coming about. It’s hard to know whether change will lead into heartache or fortune—or, if for the humans, there will be more _stupidity_ ahead of them.

( Most likely, so said Alakazam. ) 

All you can do is play your part and hope the path ahead becomes clear, for you and those around you.

 

So if you need to bend your orders and reveal yourself to get two _stupidity_ inflicted humans into meeting, then that’s what you do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once more, happy birthday to potaterto.
> 
> and thank you all for reading. ♥ a good day to you too.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprise addition by [Annablume!](https://mondfuchs.tumblr.com/) A sort-of sequel. Some birthday gifts never end.


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